


The Price of Valour

by orphan_account, RomanyWalker, wench_fics (WeasleyWench)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, EWE, Erotica, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Love Story, M/M, Smut, Sounding, disability fic, first-time m/m, ooc, slow-build, switching sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 406,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeasleyWench/pseuds/wench_fics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when someone you hate needs you more than anything else? When it's life or death, either battle to the end, or die trying. DH compliant, but ignores the Epilogue. (Rating for later chapters: for the avoidance of any and all possible doubt, this story features a lot of plot and character development. The smut is quite a long way off.) This is the original fic, without post-completion editing.</p><p>If you wish to download the completed PDF, <a href="https://app.box.com/shared/xv9ssy2b6a">please follow this link</a> This PDF has the chapters edited and phrases like 'the blond' removed. </p><p>Here is the link for the mobi of the same PDF: <a href="https://app.box.com/s/qyvpb66dgbj19uo9ab2m">Mobi formatted book with updates</a></p><p>*This story is over four years old and presented in the same way it was originally published, apart from the updates to the PDF and mobi given*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you wish to download the completed PDF, [please follow this link](https://app.box.com/shared/xv9ssy2b6a) This PDF has the chapters edited and phrases like 'the blond' removed. 
> 
> Here is the link for the mobi of the same PDF: [Mobi formatted book with updates](https://app.box.com/s/qyvpb66dgbj19uo9ab2m)

****

Prologue: The Betrayal

The lights in the Auror division of the Ministry of Magic were entirely too bright. They left long rays of piercing radiance that seemed to make Harry’s brain tickle and itch with irritation. He closed his eyes to shield them from the razor-sharp illumination only to feel the painful heat of tea tearing at his skin. With a soft curse, he sat the cup down, shaking his hand in efforts to remove the offending liquid from his skin. Small droplets of the russet beverage splattered along the parchment Harry was composing for the Minister, smearing the ink. He used the sleeve of his robes to pat dry the remaining stains and cursed again. The whole day seemed to be balancing on stilts, ready to topple with the slightest shift in weight. There were only brief moments where nothing had gone wrong, but this was not one of them. The report Harry was composing was due in an hour and he’d only just begun it. Now, there was tea covering the majority of the parchment and the tingling in his legs had returned.

He cursed again, more for comfort than anything, hoping that he could somehow salvage the mess in front of him. If only his head would stop hurting and his legs would stop feeling like a legion of Flesh-Eating slugs were slithering beneath his skin. He stood up and took a few steps before everything blurred before him, and he needed to sit down again. Inhaling sharply, he immediately regretted it; various scents around the room assaulted his nostrils, making it difficult to breathe without pain. He could smell remnants of Ginny’s perfume on his robes, the spices from his lunch, and the tea he’d just spilt. With each inhale, the scents grew stronger, making his head throb against his skull. 

He closed his eyes, trying to tune out all of the sounds in the small area; everything seemed amplified, as though the witches and wizards around him were using a Sonorus spell. With shaking hands, he opened the drawer of his desk, and fumbled for one of the many potion vials tucked away. The glass clattered together as his fingers brushed against them, tipping them enough to read the labels and moving on. He found the one he was looking for and quickly removed the cork, swallowing its contents as though his life depended on it. He slammed the small container down and watched as it rolled around until it tapped against his quill, coming to a stop. Scribbled on the side of the small vial, in Hermione’s neat scrawl, was _Calming Draught_.

Taking a deep breath, Harry tried to relax and allow the potion’s effects to soothe his tattered nerves. With slow, rhythmic breaths, he tried to focus on anything but the tickling sensation in his head. The longer he inhaled and exhaled, the better he felt; with a sigh of relief, he picked up his quill and began trying to complete his report. His hands were still shaking slightly, but at least the scratch of the quill against the parchment didn’t rattle his insides like an earthquake. 

Scratching the last words on the page, Harry sat back, satisfied with the report.

“Harry Potter?”

Turning to see who had called his name, Harry’s eyes met with the angelic face of the Minister’s new assistant. Her arrival could only mean one thing: Kingsley was on his way to collect the report. He could never remember her name, but that didn’t matter; what mattered was the report still covered in tea and he was sitting with an empty potion vial on his desk. Desperate to avoid any questions, he shuffled the papers and tossed the vial back in his drawer, locking it. Wand at the ready, he copied the report, hoping that the obvious mess wouldn’t transfer to the fresh sheet of parchment. 

“Auror Potter, what is the meaning of this?”

Harry turned, startled. “Excuse me, sir?”

Kingsley Shaklebolt, the Minister of Magic, was standing before him with a bright piece of parchment that he recognised as the invitations of the wedding that Ginny had picked out. 

“Why didn’t I get this sooner?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t—”

A loud guffaw that irritated Harry’s already fragile state echoed into the room. “Harry, I’m only kidding. I got it months ago. What’s the matter? You look like you’ve been in training all day.”

“Nothing, sir. I’m fine.”

“Have you seen yourself in a mirror, boy? You are whiter than Albus’ tomb!”

“I’m f-fine, sir, really,” Harry replied with a frown. He didn’t like that his symptoms were so obvious. “I’ve finished the report on the Death Eaters in Brighton, sir. Auror Weasley and I have a team set up—”

“Harry,” the Minister interrupted. “You don’t need to be so formal. Go home. You look like you need some rest.”

“But, sir, I’m fine,” Harry insisted.

“No more excuses. Go home and enjoy the evening. I hear the weather’s taken a turn for the better,” Kingsley replied, turning to leave. “Oh, and leave the report with my assistant.”

The dark-skinned man left Harry standing dumbfounded, as his assistant sauntered back into the room with reddened cheeks and a giddy grin. This wasn’t uncommon, but he still hated it; he didn’t like the way people _admired_ him as though he were some idol for them to worship. He’d tried for years to get away from being The-Boy-Who-Lived and just live his life as Harry Potter: Ministry Auror and future husband of Ginevra Weasley, but it wasn’t working. His image would always be the ‘conqueror of the Dark Lord’. 

The young woman giggled softly as Harry held out the parchment for her to take. He tried to smile in return, but his head was starting to hurt again already and for once, he felt like he would accept Kingsley’s generosity. 

It was still early for a Wednesday, but the lift was full of people as they headed to the main floor of the Ministry building. Harry tried to breathe and stay calm as the slight blurring of his vision returned and his head began to ache. He manoeuvred through the crowds quickly, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, threw it in the grate, and called out, “Hightrees.” The spinning through the Floo network did nothing for his already ailing head. By the time he stepped into his home, he felt completely spent. He just wanted a nice long lie down before attempting to eat anything.

Harry was happy when he landed in the fireplace at his home in Hampton. It was a large, mountainous looking house with white bricks and a black roof. It was a little more opulent than Harry would have liked, but the atmosphere seemed to grow on him and it was now a place he considered _home_. 

He stepped onto the plush, Persian rug in front of the hearth and cast quick spell to clean the Floo powder from his person and floor. It has been a long day, no matter how he tried to deny it. He wanted a nice cup of tea and to sit with Ginny for a while, but as he stepped into the kitchen and saw Neville Longbottom and Ginny talking feverishly, he wondered what was going on. It was a surprise to see his old school mate at his home, especially since they didn’t see one another often.

“Neville, hey, everything alright?” Harry said with as much enthusiasm as his strange ailments would allow. 

“H-Harry! Everything’s fine, you?” Neville stammered, his face turning a bright shade of crimson.

“Alright, just a bit tired. How are things at Hogwarts?” Harry asked, still surprised to see his friend at his home. 

“F-fine, thanks. The M-ministry?”

“You’re home early,” Ginny spat, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly.

“Kingsley sent me home, said I looked like I needed a lie in. What’s going on, Gin?”

“Nothing. Neville and I were just catching up; right, Neville?”

“Y-yeah, a bit,” Neville said and turned toward Ginny, his face pleading with the youngest Weasley. “Tell him, Ginny.”

“No!” Ginny said, turning away from both men.

“Tell me what? What’s going on? Did something happen?” Harry was confused. What would Neville know that Harry didn’t about his fiancé?

“H-Harry, listen, I need to talk to you about something,” Neville stammered, his face still red with embarrassment. 

“Go on, I’m listening.”

“Neville! Not now!”

“Sorry, Gin, he has to know.”

“What exactly is it that I have to know?” Harry replied incredulously. He didn’t like how this was going; there was a sinking feeling in his gut that he really didn’t want to know the answer to his question, not the way Ginny was standing with her back to both of them. She only turned when she spoke and her fingertips seemed glued to her forehead.

“G-Ginny and I-I,” Neville began, his gaze trained on the tiled floor on the kitchen. “W-we’ve b-been seeing one another, H-Harry.”

“Neville! For Merlin’s sake, couldn’t you have waited?” Ginny began to pace the kitchen, her hair waving in the wake of her movements. 

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t do it anymore, Ginny. Harry’s one of my best mates.”

Harry found it odd that Neville didn’t stammer when speaking to Ginny. Part of him felt completely distant from the conversation taking place, but he knew deep down that he was actually standing in his kitchen, hearing one of his best mates tell him that his fiancé was having an affair.

“I’m sorry, Neville, could you say that again. I’m not sure I’ve heard you properly.”

“G-Ginny and I have been s-s-sleeping together.”

The words began to string together, making it hard to think. His thoughts, no matter how cloudy, were swimming of betrayal and anger. He wanted to lash out; he wanted to know why. Why had the woman he loved and cherish done something so _Slytherin_ like? It was like a smack in the face of astronomical proportions; the kind of news that made him wish he wasn’t such a good man. He knew he had flaws, but wanted to know what could have precipitated such an ignoble act on their part. 

The only question burning the tip of Harry’s tongue was _why_. Why did she do it? Why did Neville do it? And just as he was about to call them every foul name his mind could muster, he finally asked, his tone harsh and demanding. 

“Why?” 

The question reverberated around the room and two plates shattered, their tiny fragments clattering against the tiled floor. Neither Ginny, nor Neville spoke. The silence descended upon the room like a harsh blanket, muting everything but the carefully controlled breaths that Harry exhaled. 

“I asked you a question!” Harry yelled. He could no longer control the anger he felt despite the throbbing in his head. 

“Calm down, Harry,” Ginny said, as calmly as possible. Her entire demeanour shifted from haughty and sure to one of fear and uncertainty. Neville began to back away slowly, afraid of what Harry might do. 

“Why, Ginny? Why did you do it? I give you everything—”

“Everything but you, Harry!” Ginny interrupted, her voice like a hammer against Harry’s head. The shrill cry was desperate, but meaningless to his already incensed mind. “You go to work and come home; you never want to go out and all you care about is work! If you aren’t with Ron, you’re here doing nothing! You ignore me and I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“H-Harry, it w-w-was an accident,” Neville stammered, trying to divert Harry’s attention from Ginny. Everyone knew that The-Boy-Who-Lived had a temper like a Hungarian Horntail, but it had been years since any one had been on the receiving end of it. 

“Shut it, Neville!”

“See! This is exactly what I mean! You don’t care, Harry; you don’t care about anything! It really was an accident!”

“How long?” Harry managed through gritted teeth. Neither Neville, nor Ginny spoke; instead, they exchanged glances, their faces betraying what Harry already felt. “How long, Neville?”

“T-three months,” Neville replied, trying to distance himself from the quarrelling lovers. 

“Is that why you’re here, Neville, to shag my fiancé again?”

“No!” Neville replied vehemently.

“He wanted me to tell you before now,” Ginny cried. 

“Oh, come off it, Gin,” Harry said, cringing. His head was beginning to feel like a Quidditch match was going on inside its depths. 

“We had too much to drink and it just happened!”

“But you continued?” queried Harry, not truly listening. He wanted to throw Ginny out and demand that she never set foot near him again.

“Neville offered me comfort when I needed it, which is more than I can say for you!” Ginny yelled, as she began to pace the kitchen. “It was an accident, but I wasn’t ready to end it yet. I wanted it, Harry. I wanted the attention that you didn’t give!”

“Harry, I’m s-s-sorry. I—”

“Save it, Neville,” Harry said with a low growl, rubbing his temples as the pain increased, and he felt his legs begin to shake. He couldn’t understand what was going on. Why now? He’d spent so much time trying to please everyone that he didn’t think it was too much to ask for a quiet life. “We’re supposed to get married in three weeks, Ginny. We’re supposed to have dinner at The Burrow tonight… Why?”

There were tears pouring down Ginny’s freckled cheeks; her face was red and puffy. None of that seemed to matter to Harry as he looked on his fiancé and one of his oldest friends with detached interest. He loved Ginny; he was _in_ love with Ginny, and yet her actions proved she didn’t feel the same way. She never said anything about wanting to do more, or expressed any displeasure with their life. He’d always tried to be honest with himself and with Ginny, but it would seem that she didn’t feel the same way.

As his legs weakened, Harry gripped the countertop, trying desperately to hold on to something substantial. The longer he listened to Ginny’s sobs, the more it felt like his head was about to split in two.

“Just get out,” he finally managed, looking at both Ginny and Neville with disdain. “I don’t want to see either of you again. GET OUT!”

“Harry, please, I love you,” Ginny pleaded, walking to where Harry stood, leaning against the counter. “Just listen to me!”

“Go! I don’t want you here! Either of you!” Harry tried not to yell, but it seemed that the words spilled forth before he could stop them. Another plate broke and landed on Ginny’s bare foot. She yelped in surprise before running from the kitchen to the stairs. Harry swore he could hear every step she took along the floorboards of their home. It was the most painful, dull throb he’d ever known outside of the link between himself and Voldemort. Only this time, he was awake to feel every pin prick against the grey matter inside his head; part of him wished that he could cast _Engorgio_ on his skull just so his brain would fit inside it again. 

Harry closed his eyes and felt everything swirl. He dug his fingers into the marble tops, trying desperately to get a hold on his body. The thudding became like a drumbeat, rhythmically pounding until each became shorter, then finally stopped. Neville walked away from the kitchen quickly and Harry didn’t even spare a glance as they disappeared in green flames through the Floo. As soon as they were gone, he let out of a frustrated scream that only served to make his head hurt worse. With slow, precise steps, Harry found his way to the sofa, dropping down unceremoniously before exhaling heavily. 

Harry felt completely foolish. He’d invested the last five years of his life in his relationship with Ginny. Surely, she was blind if she couldn’t see how much he adored her. He just didn’t understand how everything could have gone so sour so fast. His heart ached as much as the rest of him. He knew he had another Calming Draught somewhere, but couldn’t be arsed to search, not with the way his legs trembled, and his head ached. 

Why couldn’t he have something like Hermione and Ron?

Harry finally started to drift off to sleep, his conscious mind giving way to darkness…

_Harry crouched behind a grey, stone wall, wiping the sweat that pooled on his brow. His heart raced with anxiety as another burst of magic flew over his head angrily. The colours were exploding all around and he heard a familiar voice yelling his name. He turned to see a blurry figured behind another broken piece of the pitted stone. The words were garbled and incoherent, but there was an urgency to it that made Harry’s heart beg for escape from his chest. A sudden explosion of rock and debris made him jump, his body landing against the cold surface of the wall._

_“Harry!” the voice called and then others joined in. The voices were taunting him and to prove a point, Harry transfigured a large piece of rock into a mirror and looked around the edge of the barrier. There were four shadowy figures spreading out as though they controlled the night._

_The figure across from Harry rose to their haunches, ready to pounce as the other four drew closer. Harry couldn’t understand a word the person was saying, so instead of listening, he watched as two of the figures disappeared from sight. A flurry of colours flew toward Harry; he tried to dodge, but spells collided with his body from both sides, making his insides lurch. Pain surged through his body and a sensation of numbness spread through his body in sporadic waves. He lifted his wand and cast spells at all of the figures, hoping that he’d hit someone. It was when he heard a loud eruption that it was clear that this was a duel to the death._

_The urgency returned and Harry tried desperately to fight the growing pain in his head, but the feeling that something wasn’t right returned._

The Floo ignited and Harry awoke with a start. His legs felt completely numb and there was a sick feeling in his stomach as Ron appeared in the green flames, cursing until he brushed all of the ash from his robes. 

Harry’s stomach plummeted as he realised why Ron was standing in his sitting room with a look of pure rage on his face. 

 

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Blood is Thicker than Water**

“Ron—”

“What’s your problem?”

“My problem? Ron—”

“Why the hell did you throw Ginny out?” Ron snarled, his voice cutting through the pain in Harry’s head. 

“She couldn’t even tell you why?” Harry muttered in disbelief. He should have known that Ginny would fail to explain to her brother why Harry threw her out of their home. As he thought about his life, he felt Ron’s long fingers wrap around the lapels of his robes; his knuckles began to dig into Harry’s skin, sending irritating pulses through his chest. 

“What’d she do, Harry?” Ron yelled, his face inches from Harry’s. 

“She’s been shagging Neville for three months; that’s what!”

Ron looked at Harry with a shocked expression; however, the news didn’t seem to deter his tirade. 

“And you couldn’t work it out? You just toss her out because of a mistake?” Ron said, releasing his hold on his best mate. It didn’t seem to matter that Ginny had been lying for three months, or that she had been shagging Neville for the most trivial of reasons. He paid attention to her; he loved her! He loved the way her hair bunched up on the pillows as the slept; he loved the way her laugh seemed to invigorate him after an especially hard day at the Ministry. But none of that mattered now. Everything Harry had known was now crashing down around him because of her foolishness. He didn’t know how he was supposed to make it easier, not when she had made it clear by her actions that she wanted no part in what he had to offer. 

“How is three months a mistake?” Harry scoffed loudly, trying to make sense of Ron’s words. He had just woken; his thoughts were already cloudy from dreams that felt more realistic than they should, and now Ron was questioning him like a member of the Wizengamot – only they had never laid a hand on him physically. 

“If you love her, you’ll work it out!”

“Oh, brilliant, Ron, I’d like to just say, ‘Sorry, Gin, I know it was a mistake. Please, come home.’ What do you expect me to say?”

Ron paced the sitting room, resting his forearms against the dark, mahogany mantle above the fireplace. He let out a soft growl, his arms knocking over the animated photos as he turned. Harry watched as the frames clattered to the floor, shards of the carved wood skidding across the polished surface. 

“You’ve always had it all – people who adore you, money—”

“Is that what this is about?” Harry demanded. He tried to stand to face his friend properly, but his legs barely supported him as he flexed his muscles. _What the fuck is wrong with me,_ Harry thought as he settled against the well-used cushions surrounding him. 

“It’s about you never appreciating what you have! You don’t deserve my sister,” Ron spat. 

“You forgot Voldemort; I had a madman trying to kill me, Horcruxes to hunt… I died! What else do you want, Ron? She’s been shagging Neville for three months and you say _I_ don’t deserve her? What the hell are _you_ thinking?”

“You’re a selfish git, you know that? You should listen to what she has to say and try to work it out. People make mistakes, Harry!”

“What if it was Hermione?” Harry growled, sitting up. He wanted to stand and face Ron, to tell him how stupid he was being. He planted his feet purposefully, willing his body to move. The pain in his head hadn’t subsided – it had only gotten worse since Ron arrived ranting and raving like a complete lunatic. Harry just wanted his friend to see it from his perspective. He wanted to know how Ron would feel if the woman he loved and cherished did the same thing…

“Hermione wouldn’t do that!” Ron said harshly. “She’s got me!”

“You never see things for what they are,” Harry muttered, stumbling toward the kitchen. He needed another Calming Draught before his brain became a new decoration in his home. 

“Where’re you going? I’m talking to you!” Ron yelled after Harry as he fumbled through one of the kitchen cupboards. 

“Ginny had _me_ , Ron,” Harry said, his fingers wrapping around the potion vial. Silence descended upon the room as Harry rifled through the contents of the drawer. He knew there had to be more vials, there had to be. He couldn’t have drunk them all already, could he? It didn’t matter, not now, not the way his head hurt and Ron’s constant stream of expletives played havoc with his already unstable equilibrium. The ceramic pieces on the floor cracked underneath Harry’s feet as he tried to focus. It was becoming harder to think the longer the events of the last eight hours began to bear down upon him.

Looking up, he saw that Ron stood perfectly still, his face red with anger and his eyes glittering with malice, surveying Harry as he continued to ignore him. _There has to be some in the bathroom, _Harry thought, trying to manoeuvre his way to the closed door off the entrance of the house. He just needed to make it to the cabinet, but his legs trembled as if they were autumn leaves rattled by the wind.__

__Ginny’s infidelity complicated matters in the worst ways. As partners, Harry would have to deal with Ron’s animosity, only adding more stress to his already weary mind. The weight of the situation firmly ensconced itself within his thoughts as Ron continued his rant, demanding that Harry make amends with his sister. The noble thing to do would be to talk to Ginny and at least _try_ to understand her side of things, but the problem with that, in Harry’s mind, was that she’d betrayed everything they had. _ _

__He finally found what he was looking for: another small vial marked _Calming Draught._ At the moment, the small glass bottle felt more like redemption than Voldemort’s death had, as he swallowed its contents. Harry’s hold relaxed and the vial clattered to the floor as he sought the comfort of the sofa. _ _

__He closed his eyes, willing the pain away. He wanted peace. He wanted Ron to leave and allow him a moment to breathe without a familiar face to remind him of his erstwhile fiancée._ _

__“Fuck off, Harry. Just stay away from us,” Ron spat like a curse, shaking his head, and storming to the fireplace. In a flash of violent, green flames, he was gone._ _

__Harry was alone with his thoughts, alone with the dull throb in the back of his mind. He closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep while the pain was minimal, hoping that when he woke, it would be gone._ _

___“There’re four of them,” a familiar voice whispered, cutting through the silence. They were breathing heavily with sweat dripping from their brows. Harry turned to face the figure beside him, only seeing a blur. As he looked around, he noticed that everything appeared to shift before his eyes; nothing remained solid for longer than a single heartbeat._ _ _

___“On three?” the voice asked, shifting their weight._ _ _

___“No, wait! We need to wait,” Harry replied quickly. He wasn’t patient by nature, but he had a feeling to wait. The four figures in the distance were arguing. Their voices drifted to where Harry and his companion waited in silence for the perfect opportunity to act._ _ _

___The wait was always the hardest part, especially for a man like Harry. He’d never been the kind of person to just wait for anything to come to him, no, that was too Slytherin. Instead, he chose to dive headfirst into every scenario before thinking. It had been that way when he encouraged Ron and Hermione to find out the truth about Snape in first year, it had been that way when he went into the Chamber of Secrets after Ginny, and it had been that way when he ran off to the Ministry to ‘save’ Sirius. He owed his newfound patience to his training as an Auror, but it never truly took away his desire to act fast._ _ _

___He turned to look at the clearing and everything went black. No stars remained in the sky and the darkness swallowed his vision. He called out into the nothingness, his voice echoing hollowly before a lancing pain drive its way through his body. His arms and legs seized as his insides felt as though they were going to come undone like one of Mrs Weasley’s Christmas jumpers after Crookshanks played with it. He tried to stand, but fell to the ground in a heap of numbed limbs._ _ _

__When Harry woke, he was lying on the floor, his stomach rebelling against its sparse contents. He felt a line of fire scorching his insides as the fluid prisoner in his insides began to work its way out. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the tingle that started at his waist, working its way through his toes. He barely made it to the toilet before his body’s prayer for relief came. He heaved painfully, his stomach and chest lurching with each violent thrust from his core._ _

__Harry wasn’t sure if he was awake as his head threatened to split open. He pressed his forehead against the cool surface of the toilet, wishing that the pain would stop. He heard someone calling his name, but it was hollow and distant. It grew louder, but he couldn’t look up. He didn’t want to know who had come to chastise him now. His glasses were hanging by the tips of their legs, ready to fall at any second when he felt a solid, warm embrace around his body._ _

__“Harry, what’s happened?”_ _

__“Hermione?” he replied weakly, wondering if she was real. If she was, he was grateful to have someone that would listen to him. He tried to explain what happened with Ginny, but the words slurred together, making it impossible to understand him._ _

__“Harry, we need to get you to hospital,” she said urgently. “I’ll Apparate us; hold on tight.”_ _

__Harry’s body went limp in Hermione’s arms. He wanted to hold on and he tried, but the moment the magic took hold, his world went black._ _

__**~*~** _ _

__When Ron hadn’t returned to The Burrow for dinner, Hermione knew something was wrong. Ginny was in tears by the time she arrived from work and Mrs Weasley was shouting about Ron being as foolish as ever. Knowing her fiancé and Harry, she didn’t want to wait for an explanation from Mrs Weasley; instead, she thought it best to make sure neither of them was hurt. When she had arrived at Hightrees, she wasn’t sure what to expect. The entire house was quiet except for the heaving coming from the hall. Hermione had hurried toward the sound, her heart physically clenching when she saw Harry._ _

__When she landed outside of Purge and Dowse Ltd., she didn’t wait for the ugly dummy to acknowledge her; instead, she moved right through the glass dragging Harry with her. Once inside, she stumbled to one of the old, wooden chairs, and sat Harry down. The Welcome Witch demanded her attention, but she didn’t want to leave Harry alone, unconscious._ _

__“Miss?” a Medi-witch asked, a clipboard in hand. “Miss, can I help you?”_ _

__“He passed out,” Hermione answered, trying to steady her nerves._ _

__“Name?”_ _

__“Harry Potter.”_ _

__Two Healers in lime-green robes appeared by their sides instantly. They lifted Harry’s body onto a gurney and the Medi-witch motioned for Hermione to follow. Hermione followed quickly, worry overpowering her sense of bravery._ _

__“Are you next of kin?”_ _

__“Yes. No. I don’t know,” Hermione said, frazzled._ _

__“What’s your name?”_ _

__“Hermione Granger.”_ _

__“Has he taken anything, Miss Granger?”_ _

__“No!”_ _

__“Has he been hit with any spells recently?”_ _

__“No, I don’t think so.”_ _

__“How did you get here?”_ _

__“Side-along Apparition.”_ _

__“Was he awake before you arrived?”_ _

__“Barely. He was vomiting,” she answered carefully._ _

__“Have a seat; we’ll see what we can find out.”_ _

__Hermione tried to listen as the Medi-witch relayed the information to the Healers, but she couldn’t concentrate. The two men that had assisted Harry onto the bed were waving their wands while the Medi-witch took notes._ _

__“Ennervate!” one of the men said and Harry’s eyes popped open. He sat up, heaving violently as he tried to breathe. His chest rattled loudly with each sputter and finally he stilled, falling to the bed. A slow trickle of blood started to ooze from his nose and one of the Healers yelled for the Medi-witch to fetch Healer Malfoy._ _

__**~*~** _ _

__When Draco felt his Healer’s Mark tingle, he checked his charmed bracelet for the details about his newest patient. _R2: Suspected spell damage, ground floor. Emergency,_ flashed on the face of the enchanted jewellery and he dropped his quill mid-sentence; his recent findings could wait. _ _

__He made his way downstairs quickly to room two and stopped in surprise when he saw a pale, bloody-faced Harry Potter trying to breathe and Hermione Granger pacing around the room. The two Healers were attempting to calm Potter down, but he convulsed the longer they waved their wands._ _

__“Lower your wands,” Draco said confidently, not allowing his surprise to override his training. The two Healers backed off, lowering their wands as Draco approached Potter. Slowly the convulsions stopped and Potter relaxed against the red-spattered bedding. He was still trembling, but some of the colour was returning to his cheeks. Casting a cleaning spell, the blood disappeared from his patient’s face, and Draco looked into emerald eyes, cloudy with disorientation. His pupils were enlarged, black pools of confusion that drew Draco in._ _

__“What happened?”_ _

__Granger tried to explain as much as possible, but she clearly didn’t know anything more than he could deduce from looking at Potter. The longer Draco touched The-Boy-Who-Lived, he could feel something wasn’t right. There was so much magic surrounding the Saviour that he couldn’t pick it all apart: Dark, Light, and something ambiguous that he couldn’t place. Something about this didn’t settle right within him, but he didn’t have time to ask any more questions. Potter slid into unconsciousness, his breathing returning to normal and his pulse finally slowing. Draco was wary about using magic to check the status of his former school rival, but he needed to know if Potter was going to die or not. He cast a quick spell, the results yielding positive results that completely contradicted his instinct._ _

__“He’s stable. For now, anyway—”_ _

__Draco turned to face Granger, her face set defiantly into one he’d seen many times over the years. Addressing their rivalry at Hogwarts would have to wait, though. The door to the room opened and a short, lumpy man with a thin moustache entered the room._ _

__“Healer Malfoy, a word, if you please,” the man said._ _

__Draco disliked Quintus fforde-Fane. The man wasn’t a Healer; he was a quill-pusher of the worst sort. He interfered with cases only when his involvement would surely bring attention to St Mungo’s Hospital. Draco tried to hide his irritation with his Department Head, but the man truly disgusted him. He schooled his features into the most neutral expression possible for the circumstances, and waited for the inevitable._ _

__“Mr Malfoy, I will be taking over Mr Potter’s care for the duration of his stay in St Mungo’s. The Senior Consultants would like to see a more experienced Healer in Spell Damage handle this case.”_ _

__“As you wish, sir,” Draco said and walked away. He wasn’t going to wait around for more excuses, not when he had a feeling that Potter would only get worse if left to their care. He didn’t need fforde-Fane’s permission to treat a patient, especially when he knew that he could figure out the problem given enough time. It would be a challenge with fforde-Fane watching, but he was a Slytherin. There were ways of achieving his goals without directly interfering. There was a pretty, young Medi-witch always trying to get his attention, maybe she would be willing to help. He didn’t have to lead her on, but more than once his smile had charmed the coldest of witches and wizards. It didn’t matter that Draco had no interest in witches…_ _

__Draco checked his watch and cursed. He and Benedict had plans for the evening and it was already half-past eleven. His lover would have to wait, though. Draco wanted to know what fforde-Fane had done to treat Potter. He figured he had just enough time to finish his findings on the effects of certain spells on pregnant witches._ _

__He waited about an hour after finishing the report before looking for the plain Medi-witch, Mina. He strode confidently down the corridors of the fifth floor, noting that Potter now had a private room on the Janus Thickey ward for Spell Damage. Scanning the various clipboards, Draco found the one he was looking for quickly: Harry J. Potter._ _

__“Excellent,” Draco said reaching for the clipped parchments._ _

__“Healer Malfoy! What a surprise; we don’t see you down here very often.”_ _

__“Hello, Mina. I needed to stretch my legs a bit and I wanted to check on a patient of mine.”_ _

__“Mr fforde-Fane’s already said he’s taking care of Mr Potter. I can’t let you see that record, Healer,” she said following his gaze._ _

__“Potter and I are old friends, Mina. I just want to see that he’s getting the best care,” Draco said with a devilish smile. He knew that the young Medi-witch might take his demeanour as flirtation, but he didn’t care, as long he got what he wanted._ _

__“I suppose I can make some rounds…”_ _

__“That’s an excellent idea,” Draco replied. He watched as Mina turned down one of the corridors and quickly copied Potter’s chart before leaving. He was tired, but he wanted to look at what treatments his boss had decided on. He gathered his things quickly and Dis-Apparated to his home in Winchester. It was well past three o’clock when Draco stepped into his bedroom, the sounds of his snoring lover irritating his tired mind. _Why hasn’t he gone home?_ Draco mused with frustration, as he made his way to the bathroom. He wanted to peel his sticky, fashionably ridiculous robes from his body and take a nice, hot shower. _ _

__He felt that something was off with the Golden Boy, but he needed a clear idea before he could act. He had a feeling that if fforde-Fane was left to Potter’s care that he would end up worse off. He just needed to find enough proof…_ _

__After a very relaxing shower, Draco took a seat in the conservatory. The chart was a mess; there were notes everywhere about Potter’s medical treatments since he had left Hogwarts. Many of which were standard for an Auror, but there was nothing beyond that. It was too simple._ _

__Draco scanned the documents noting a few common symptoms: vomiting, headaches, and disorientation. Potter hadn’t been to St Mungo’s in a year or more for any accidents. fforde-Fane administered a Dreamless Sleep Draught along with a fast dissolving potion for severe headaches. The Head of Spell Damage scrawled a note at the bottom of the chart: _Recommend a fortnight of leave from the Auror division and three days on Janus Thickey ward for observation. Next of kin, Hermione Granger, is responsible for treatment administration while patient is unconscious. Possibly stress induced or rare sickness. Testing will resume when patient wakes.__ _

__“He’s not telling the Healers something,” Draco said adamantly to the empty room. Potter was hiding something; he shouldn’t have passed out just from a Side-along Apparition with Granger. He also shouldn’t have nosebleeds and dry-heave the remaining contents of his stomach. The opportunity to prove his worth as a Healer was upon him, and Draco prepared to seize it with an iron grip._ _

__“Who didn’t?”_ _

__Startled briefly by Benedict’s sleepy drawl, Draco looked at his lover with a smile. “No one, Ben. Go back to bed.”_ _

__“Where’ve you been? We had plans,” Ben whinged, taking a seat across from Draco._ _

___Can’t this wait until morning,_ Draco thought before answering. “I had a patient. I couldn’t exactly leave.”_ _

__“You always say that.”_ _

__“It’s my job,” Draco said. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”_ _

__Ben took Draco’s hands and helped him up, leading him to the bedroom. Draco was tired, but he also knew that if he indulged his lover that he would have more time to think about how to deal with Potter. This was his chance to re-pay Potter for saving his life during the Battle of Hogwarts. It was also his chance to take on a challenging case and make a name for himself that didn’t have the stigma of being a Death Eater attached to it._ _

__Diametrically opposed Marks on each of his forearms proved that he had changed. On the left, the ugly skull and snake of the Dark Lord, on the right, a wand and bone crossed, marking him as a Healer. Yes, he’d worked hard for his position and wasn’t going to sacrifice it for fforde-Fane’s silly notions, not when he was sure there was more going on with Potter._ _

__He didn’t like it, but Draco had a feeling he would be getting to know Granger better if he was going to make this work. He needed an ally, even if it was one that he didn’t want; Granger was the key. He’d make her see._ _

__

__To be continued…_ _


	3. Chapter 2

****

Chapter 2: Going Home to Nothing

For two days, Draco had collected Harry’s charts from one of the young mediwitches on the fourth floor. fforde-Fane had the incompetent notion that Potter had contracted a rare strain of Kneazle Influenza, which would explain the headaches, vomiting, and nosebleeds, but completely ignored the magical signatures all around the man and the reason he collapsed from a Side-Along Apparition. While Draco was sure that it was possible for Potter to have contracted the rare, lethal disease, the likelihood was incredibly low. There hadn’t been a case of Kneazle Influenza in nearly thirty years, which would explain why fforde-Fane was so eager to diagnose it. 

Potter hadn’t shown any change in his vitals since his admittance to St Mungo’s hospital. His blood pressure had still been incredibly high, the instances of vomiting had only decreased to twice a day, and he had continued to suffer disorientation while he was awake. Draco had also noticed that Potter hadn’t been awake for longer than ten minutes at a time since his boss had taken over the case. Based on his observations, Draco had felt the need to interfere in his boss’ attempts at medical treatment. Potions had been replaced with watered-down juices, or flavoured water to seem like they were medicines. Draco had been meticulous with keeping track of Potter’s progress; he had noticed a steady decline in the man’s health with each potion administered, while he got better with each placebo that Draco introduced. It has been painstaking, but getting the answers was all that mattered. 

The results of fforde-Fane’s treatment always contradicted what Draco had concluded, but it hadn’t changed his ability to find an answer. He didn’t care that Potter was sick; he cared that there was a problem that needed a solution. None of the observations made any sense to Draco; the longer he looked at the documents before him, the more he wanted to ask questions of Potter and Granger. The mediwitches wouldn’t be able to ask questions without fforde-Fane, or Granger growing suspicious, though. At least Draco’s instinct was paying off – if Potter returned to St Mungo’s, he would make his plea to Granger. Malfoys never back down from a challenge, even if incompetent, meddlesome bureaucrats did. 

Draco tried to shake the feeling in his bones, but it remained firmly nestled inside him. _There’s more going on,_ Draco thought, replacing the filched medical records in his desk drawer. The fact that he could lose his job stealing Potter’s records never even crossed Draco’s mind. In his mind, he was doing the right thing; as a Healer, it was his job to heal the sick – not watch them die – even if he didn’t like the patient. 

“Draco, are you ready to leave?” 

Draco rolled his eyes as Benedict sauntered into the study; his curly brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. The man was beautiful, a fop, and just as arrogant and selfish as Draco himself once used to be. Delicate creamy skin reflected the afternoon sunlight and a set of deep brown eyes scrutinised every move he made.

“Ben, I—”

“Don’t call me that,” Benedict whinged, “It sounds so plebeian. What are you working on? You know we’re going out this evening.”

“Nothing,” Draco responded, running his hand along the edge of the drawer, a Locking charm protecting his secrets.

“It doesn’t look like nothing. Is this the same thing that made you miss dinner the other night?”

“It’s nothing. I just need to change and we can leave,” Draco said, smiling stiffly. He had a feeling that fforde-Fane’s generosity with a day off meant that he was merely keeping Draco away from Potter. While most of the past had become a blur with the last five years, fforde-Fane still remembered what had brought Draco to the Healers of St Mungo’s for training. Even though Potter had tried to keep his support of Draco and his mother quiet, news spread like wild brush fires, igniting the animated imaginations of many witches and wizards. After the war, the Malfoy name had become one that respectable witches and wizards spat, rather than sung gaily, like Potter’s. Draco had found himself in an increasingly precarious situation until the day he had made an actual magical breakthrough. If there was one thing he had been grateful for, it was that his brilliance had never been questioned, even if his allegiances had been on many occasions. The war had brought about many changes, including the widespread news that Lucius Malfoy would be a permanent resident in Azkaban for his crimes. 

That was the past, though. Draco had worked hard, proving his abilities with potions, spell damage, and his ability to know when the most obvious answer wasn’t truly to blame for a witch or wizard’s ailment. He had spent a lot of his time working with patients affected by his Aunt Bellatrix’ wild wand and those of rogue Death Eaters. It hadn’t been easy to become a Healer. He had endured snide comments from his colleagues, threats on his life, and even pity – which he despised more than any of the comments about his _loyalties._

Benedict Mercer, a smart, wealthy wizard had been the instrument that changed all that. Draco had been struggling to make his voice heard over the cacophony of naysayers in the Spell Damage division of St Mungo’s. The fact that he had continued to cure Muggleborns and pure-bloods alike hadn’t mattered to the Senior Consultants. They had wanted to see him fail, but he had refused to stop fighting. It was in the complete interest of self-preservation that he hadn’t given up; giving up meant that he had something to hide, and if he had given up, there would certainly have been inquiries into his family even further. He hadn’t wanted his mother to suffer any more than she had already. She had lost her husband to the system; losing Draco to it wasn’t an option. 

But that was just another thing that Draco could be spiteful about; his freedom had been Potter’s doing.

Draco changed clothes quickly, shaking off the ghosts of the past. They only served to haunt him, or mock him, depending on his mood. 

Benedict was still in the study when Draco returned; the long, willowy fingers of his graceful hands drew intricate outlines along the edges of the drawer where Draco stored Potter’s records.

“That’s private,” Draco snapped. “Your donations to St Mungo’s do not include perusal of patient records.”

“Yes, quite right. I just wanted to see what has been holding your attention. You’ve barely said a word to me for two days.”

“I take my work seriously,” Draco answered coldly, his teeth grinding against one another. Manicured fingernails bit at the soft flesh of his palms as he followed Benedict’s movement around the room. Giving the man access to his home had been a bad idea. He would fix that, though; Draco didn’t want Benedict discovering his oldest obsession; knowledge of his fascination and dislike for Harry Potter would only draw unnecessary attention. He knew that he’d have to be more careful in future to avoid suspicions.

“You’re too serious. _Quintus_ could care less if you actually know how to heal these poor _Mudbloods_.”

“Even so, it’s my job and I’d appreciate if you would stop trying to jeopardise it with your _loose tongue._ ”

“Don’t be paranoid, Draco. It doesn’t suit you.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek to contain the retort on the tip of his tongue; while blood purity was still important to him, Draco was old enough to know that there was no practical reason to shout it to the wizarding world. If he learned anything from his father, it was to keep your mouth closed and your opinions to yourself. Of course, Draco never said anything to Benedict about the way the man spoke; it wasn’t his place.

“Shall we?” Draco asked, extending his arm.

With a thought, the pair Disapparated from Winchester, and the moment they landed, Draco felt a familiar tingle in his right arm. He checked his bracelet as he lagged behind Benedict on the noisy street. _Potter is being released. Copies of his chart and treatment plan are on your desk._

Smug satisfaction welled in Draco as he followed his lover to their destination in London. Dinner was enjoyable, but thoughts of Potter continued to burrow themselves into Draco’s mind. He wanted to figure it out; put all the pieces of the puzzle together, so it made sense in his mind. Benedict spent the majority of dinner discussing his book and ongoing research about his lineage, but Draco’s thoughts were elsewhere. The look of surprise on Potter’s face when Draco cleaned the blood from his face stayed with him. The more he thought about it, he liked knowing that he held some power over the git for once. 

“Draco, I’m talking to you. At least have the good sense to act like you care, I’ve been talking for ten minutes,” Benedict said, his mellifluous voice cutting through Draco’s thoughts.

“I was thinking.”

“About what? I’m trying to tell you about my great-grandfather!”

“Are these histrionics necessary?”

“Yes! You’re not listening to me,” Benedict huffed dramatically. “I was saying that I’ve found a letter from Grindelwald to my great-grandfather. I’m going to France for a few days to see if I can find anymore with his things.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Draco replied with feigned enthusiasm.

“I want you to come with me.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Why _not?_ ”

“I have a job, or did you forget?”

“Why do you work anyway? You have enough money to do whatever you want.”

“I enjoy what I do. It’s challenging.”

“You’re challenging,” Benedict replied with a sigh. “I just wanted to spend more time with you.”

“We see one another almost everyday; what else do you want?”

Benedict didn’t reply and Draco had a feeling he really didn’t want the other man to. They finished their meal in relative peace until Draco told Benedict that he needed to do something before returning home.

“I’ll meet you there. Fifteen minutes, okay?”

“You owe me,” Benedict said before Dis-Apparating. 

It was late enough that Draco could sneak into his office without running into too much resistance along the way. He concentrated on his office and grabbed the files before leaving. When he arrived home, the house was quiet and for a moment, he wondered whether Benedict had decided not to spend the night. As he moved through the house, he realised that his nosey lover was probably in the study, trying to gather more information.

When he entered the comfortable room, his anger flared and the sensitive skin of his palms was pierced with his blunt edges of his fingernails. Benedict was sitting at Draco’s desk, an array of parchments spread before him. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

Benedict started with surprise at the sound of Draco’s voice, dropping the files he was reading through. 

“I wanted to see why you were so distracted,” Benedict said, unfazed by his obvious invasion of Draco’s privacy. “Don’t you think this little obsession of yours has gone on long enough, Draco? I know you hate the man, but why do you have his medical records?”

“That is none of your concern, _Benedict_.”

“I’ll see you when I get back. By then, let’s hope your little obsession has run its course,” Benedict said, and with a _pop_ he was gone. 

**~*~*~*~**

Sunlight trickled through the windows of Harry’s room, irritating his tired eyes. He closed them quickly as the overwhelming brightness played havoc with his already disoriented mind. The scent of lavender and musk reminded him he was in fact home, even if that sentiment granted him bittersweet memories of the redhead that used to share his bed. His body still ached, but Harry felt stronger than he had in days. The tingling in his legs was gone for once, the headaches weren’t threatening to split his skull, and he was comfortable, if a bit melancholy. He inhaled deeply allowing the scent of the bedroom to distract him from the feeling of dirt on his skin. Harry remembered coming home, he remembered the argument with Ginny and Ron, but he didn’t remember why he had been in hospital. Harry peeled the fluffy white duvet back and lifted himself out of bed. It took a little effort considering he hadn’t moved for a few days, but he took ginger steps until he reached the bathroom. 

He started the shower and allowed the torrent of water to cleanse his itchy skin. Washing away his thoughts, allowed him to give them a place at the back of his mind for the time being. He didn’t want to think, not when all of his thoughts seemed to centre on Ginny and her betrayal. He needed to talk to Hermione; he needed to know what happened. 

Harry dressed quickly, making his way downstairs. Soft sniffles alerted him to the presence of someone else. He entered the sitting room, looking around for the source.

“Harry! I didn’t know you were awake,” Hermione said, sitting up quickly. Harry squinted to see better, cursing himself for forgetting his glasses. 

“Hermione?” Harry said softly. Pale slivers of light cascaded around the room and her soft sighs made his heart feel heavy.

“Have you taken your potion yet?” she asked quickly.

“No. Not yet,” he started. Hermione wiped at her eyes in an all too familiar manner. “Is—is everything alright with you and Ron?”

“’ts fine, Harry,” she said sleepily, sighing again. “Let me get your potion. The Healers said you were to take it as soon as you woke up.”

“Well, you know… if you need to talk…”

“I’m fine, Harry!” she snapped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” her voice trailed off as she entered the kitchen and came back with a bottle in hand. “Here,” she said. “Healer fforde-Fane said you need to rest. I still don’t understand how you contracted Kneazle flue. Crookshanks is never sick.”

“Hermione.”

“I mean, it’s possible. I did some reading and no one has been diagnosed with Kneazle flue for thirty years.”

“Hermione! Will you stop? Sit down. What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You were crying…”

Hermione sat next to Harry, watching carefully as he took the vile tasting potion. 

“Have you been home?”

“Yes…”

“And?”

“Ronald’s just being Ronald and—” she stopped, looking at Harry thoughtfully. Her brown eyes were glistening with unshed tears and If he’d learnt anything about women, comfort went a long way when they were having a hard time with things. It reminded him of a time when Ginny was still grieving the loss of her brother; when they were all grieving the loss of someone. He wrapped his arms around his friend, giving her as much comfort as his aching body could muster. 

“It’ll be alright,” he whispered soothingly, feeling her tense. 

“Oh, Harry, he’s been awful,” Hermione cried, finally letting her frustration out. He felt her tears fall against his barely covered neck, allowing her the emotional release she obviously needed. “He says it’s all your fault and won’t listen to reason. He’s so stupid! He’d blame a Crup if he could get away with it.”

“Shh, it’s okay, ’Mione,” Harry whispered. “You should go home. I’m fine. You need to talk to Ron. He’s already pissed off at me; there’s no reason he should be angry at you too.”

Harry looked at Hermione through blurry eyes, as he wiped away her tears. Offering a smile, she closed her eyes, nodding. Harry wanted to comfort his friend and even if it felt completely wrong, he had the urge to kiss her. His own frustration over the last few days pooled around him. Anger, hurt, and need, blazed within him. It was frightening to feel so damned helpless and weak, but he closed his eyes and let his own frustration go as warm tears stung his eyes.

Harry placed a soft kiss to Hermione’s forehead, offering comfort and understanding. She sighed heavily, her knuckles brushing against his chest as she wiped her tears of frustration. Her face turned as he whispered again, their lips brushing against one another briefly. In surprise, they both looked at one another wide-eyed, confusion clouding reason. Their eyes locked and instinct, rather than thought eased their mouths together no matter how wrong it felt. Harry’s stomach lurched with warning, but he ignored it. Hermione’s lips were soft like Ginny’s and his lips tingled as they touched hers softly. Hermione gasped at the touch, her lips easing apart. He pressed harder, opening his mouth slightly, tasting her sweet breath as their tongues met in a confused, awkward swipe. Harry couldn’t help thinking how different to Ginny this was when his entire body seized, and he cried out as the pain bubbled through him like a pot of boiling water on a hob. 

Harry was still conscious, his body burning with pain. Every part of his skin itched as he fought to stay sitting up right. He heard Hermione calling to him, but it was near impossible to make sense of any of her words. The more the pain coursed through him the more he wanted to die. He tried in vain to move but his body refused to listen, his arms and legs stiffening with each breath. 

“Harry! Harry, listen to me, I’m taking you back to St Mungo’s. Can you hear me?”

Harry tried to nod, but it hurt to move. Hermione’s small frame attempted to support him so that she could get them back to hospital, but his body refused to cooperate. Harry pushed against the floor, straining as he felt sweat form on his brow, his hands shaking violently. He felt trapped in his thoughts as a cry of pain ripped through him. He tried to think clearly, but the sunlight filtering through the room only made it worse. When Hermione’s small hands wrapped around him, he felt every touch like pins driving their way into the muscle and sinew of his body. 

“I’ve got you,” Hermione said repeatedly until Harry felt the familiar squeeze of magic and once again, his world became dark. 

To be continued…


	4. Chapter 3

****

Chapter 3: Life, Death and Draco Malfoy

The hard look of an impatient, over-worked welcomewitch faded quickly as Hermione stumbled through the enchanted glass from Muggle London into the waiting area of St Mungo’s. 

“Get Healer fforde-Fane!” Hermione called, her grip failing on Harry’s limp form. She tried to hold him, but his dead weight was too much and he sank to the floor, limbs twisted awkwardly. 

Two Healers in lime-green robes appeared with a stretcher, their wands in hand, casting a Levitation Charm on Harry’s contorted frame. His body straightened as it made contact with the flat surface, still no signs of movement. Hermione’s heart was racing wildly as she followed the Healers to an empty room. They began casting spells that she barely registered as a mediwizard approached her with a clipboard and a Quick-Quotes Quill. 

“Name?”

“Harry Potter. Please, get Healer fforde-Fane. Harry was only discharged yesterday.”

“Has he taken any potions?”

“Just the one that Healer fforde-Fane gave him yesterday. It’s for Kneazle ’flu.”

“Why is he unconscious?”

“I don’t know. It happened the last time we came, too.”

“How did you get here?”

“Side-Along-Apparition.”

“Did Healer fforde-Fane make any mention of restriction of magical transport?”

“No, sir.”

A short woman with dark brown hair approached the mediwizard asking Hermione questions and handed him a large stack of papers. He flipped through the information, and Hermione finally sank into the wooden chair behind her. 

“Healer fforde-Fane is on his way,” the woman said, looking at Hermione then turning her attention back to the mediwizard. “He says to wait before trying to revive Mr Potter.”

“Good,” the mediwizard said, turning to face the Healers that were running their wands over Harry’s lifeless form. Clothed only in his pyjamas, his face appeared pale, ashen, to her weary eyes. The tears that had nearly ceased in Harry’s arms began to flow again as the feelings of complete helplessness began to blanket her. It was maddening! She couldn’t do anything but watch as the Healers waved their wands, talking back and forth.

“Alright listen you lot, Healer fforde-Fane is on his way down. He says not to try anything until he arrives.”

“Yes, sir,” the Healers replied, resuming their spell casting.

“Are you Miss Granger?” the mediwizard asked, still reading the papers before him. 

“Yes.”

“Miss Granger, has Mr Potter ingested anything other than the potion that Healer fforde-Fane prescribed?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is he under any considerable amounts of stress at home?”

“He-he and his fiancée just broke up.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir. Not that I’m aware of.”

“Thank you, Miss Granger. The Healer will be along soon. He will probably ask you some more questions. Why don’t you get some tea for now?”

“I’d rather stay with Harry,” Hermione replied, wiping her tears.

The mediwizard nodded, leaving Hermione alone to sit and watch. Helpless. The hard wooden chair she sat in was cold, causing a shiver of discomfort to expand within her. It was then that she realised she was still wearing her pyjamas and no shoes. 

The door opened and Healer fforde-Fane sauntered in, his face tight with arrogance. Hermione had seen a similar expression many times over the years, the same air of superiority that it made her skin crawl with the memories. The man’s skin wasn’t pale, and he didn’t have a hooked nose, but the reminder of Severus Snape was enough to make her look at the Healer with less respect than his station deserved. He looked like he didn’t care that Harry was lying, to her eyes, lifeless.

To Hermione, seeing her best friend in such a state was enough to make her breathing heavy and her heart ache. Even if the sickness coursing through Harry was simple, it still hurt her to see him that way. She watched through tear-clouded eyes as fforde-Fane waved his wand, making comments after each pass. His voice was confident, and that served to ease Hermione’s nerves, but only slightly. 

The room buzzed with movement, men and women Healers coming to assist with the treatment of Harry. Healer fforde-Fane began issuing instructions to his personal staff, each mediwitch, or wizard running off quickly as instructed, only to return moments later with a sheaf of parchment, a potion vial, or some other item the lumpy man deemed necessary for her friend’s treatment. 

The coolness of the room finally began to irritate Hermione. She could only guess if Harry was comfortable, her inner mother hen pecking at the surface in insanely fast jolts. She cradled her knees to her chest trying to hold as much warmth in as possible as her chilled toes hung over the edge of the uncomfortable chair. Confusion regarding the events of the last twenty-four hours ate away at her as she cried silently against her thin pyjamas with only her hair and will keeping her secret. 

“Miss Granger?” a familiar voice said, drawing Hermione from her thoughts. 

Hermione wiped her tears with as much dignity as the situation would allow and looked into the dark eyes of Healer fforde-Fane.

“Miss Granger, can you tell me what happened?”

Hermione cleared her throat, hoping that the knot lodged within it would uncurl itself, returning her ability to speak. 

“Everything was fine last night. When I took Harry home, he went straight to bed. He woke up this morning, showered and then came downstairs,” Hermione said, trying to fight the bubbling emotion. “He took his potion,” she stopped, remembering the awkward kiss and felt her cheeks redden, grateful that her emotions covered most of the shame. “Not long after he took the potion, he just cried out in pain. He couldn’t move. It— it was awful. He barely made any sounds, but looked like he was in a lot of pain. I Apparated us here; I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s alright, my dear. You did the right thing. Did Mr Potter eat anything last night?”

“No, sir. As I said, he went straight to bed when he got home. I left for a little while and came back, but I checked on him as soon as I returned. He was fine.”

“Did he have any strange marks on him, any bruises, cuts, anything?”

“Sir, I wouldn’t know; my relationship with Harry is strictly platonic.”

“I’m sorry. I assumed that, well, never mind. How did he seem this morning?”

“He seemed okay. We were talking after he took his potion, as I said, and he just…” Hermione stopped to think of the best way to describe Harry’s strange reaction to the potion before continuing. “He just _seized_ up. He was like a board.”

“And did he say anything prior to that about any pain, numbness, weakness?”

“No, sir, nothing.”

“When did he lose consciousness?”

“I suppose when I brought us here. Like last time.”

“Very well. Please stay here; we are going to have to disrobe Mr Potter to check him over. We’ll inform you of any changes as soon as we know something more.”

Hermione could only nod in response. There was so much going on that she was having trouble thinking clearly. 

The sounds of metal scraping forced her attention as the white barrier moved into place. Silhouettes of the Healers moved and twisted in the bright lighting of the room. Hermione tried to concentrate on the spells, diagnostic results and any other pertinent information, but her thoughts were jumbled. Bits and pieces of her row with Ron came to mind, along with the guilt that accompanied kissing Harry earlier. It only served to frustrate her more when she realised that she was alone in this; helping Harry was going to drive a rift between her and Ron, and that scared her. 

Even as pig-headed as Ron was, Hermione couldn’t understand his anger toward Harry. It was all a nightmare. The moment she had Apparated home, Ron was nearly in her face, demanding answers about her absence for the last few days. The fact that she had sent an owl didn’t seem to faze him at all, nor did it seem to matter that their friend had been in St Mungo’s. All Hermione had wanted was to go home, kiss Ron and remind him that she loved him. But seeing him in a jealous, irrational snit had been enough to make her leave without doing either of those things. She had told him that she was going back to check on Harry and that she would return once he was better. 

Hermione had tried to forget Ron’s easy accusations of her infidelity, but the guilt of her shared kiss with Harry only made her feel worse. It was like Ron had seen it coming and made her aware of the fact; a portent that only increased his animosity toward Harry for reasons unknown. His words were a metaphorically bright sign that pointed out the obvious, even if Hermione had been blind to his completely abherrent notions. She would never cheat on Ron….

She had taken a few days off from work at the Ministry knowing that Harry wouldn’t take care of himself, or make himself bored within minutes of being left alone in Hightrees for too long. Hermione wasn’t daft; Harry was pining for his fiancée even if he didn’t show it. 

Hermione’s reminiscence halted abruptly as she heard fforde-Fane announce that it was time to revive Harry. She held her breath as she listened for any signs of life behind the curtain, hoping that he would wake up.

“Ennervate!” She heard loud and clear, and then the sputtering, choked gasps of her friend filled the room. She exhaled, trying to steady her nerves. Each retching sound that came from where Harry was across the room made her cringe; the voices of the Healers began to drown the low gasps for air, their movements hiding the sickening shadows that undulated behind the cloth barrier. 

“Mr Potter, can you hear me?” fforde-Fane asked, his heavy Welsh accent holding Hermione’s attention. “Mr Potter, I need you tell me if you’re in any pain.”

“H-head,” Harry rasped, taking a deep breath. He began retching again, the smell of vomit clouding the room. The stench made Hermione’s stomach turn, and she wished she were somewhere else, that this wasn’t happening. Another retch filled the room. The Healers moved around, casting spells to clean up the mess that Harry had made with each heave.

She couldn’t take it; the sounds were horrible. Each one was thicker than the last, leaving her in a tangle of despair that only seemed to grow the longer she listened. Knowing that Harry was hurting was just too much; she rose from her chair and left the room as fast as her cold feet would carry her until the door closed and only the heavy silence of the hallway could still the tumultuous anxiety that coursed through her.

The support of the hard white door behind her felt strangely comforting. Once the hinges drew the portal closed, all of the sounds of pain and hurt died. The opportunity to gather her thoughts was more than welcome, and Hermione headed to the fifth floor to get a cup of tea.

****

~*~*~*~

Harry felt like there was a thunderstorm brewing in his head. Each time he opened his eyes to look at the faces surrounding him, everything was a complete blur. Shadows of people were talking loudly, making the pain pulse harder against his skull. 

“Mr Potter? Are you feeling pain anywhere else?”

“No,” he managed through clenched teeth. The enamel ground together painfully as he tried to breathe, hoping to calm his frayed nerves. He couldn’t see and it was only making matters worse as he tried to make sense of where he was. The voice that continued to ask him questions sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place it.

“I’m going to give you a potion for the pain, but you need to calm down,” the thickly accented voice said as a hand took his chin, tilting his face backward. The vial was at his lips, and he could taste the herbs as the liquid slowly trilled into his slightly parted lips. It tasted terrible, but familiar, a potion he’d used a lot of lately. 

The maelstrom in Harry’s head slowly calmed as he listened to the man with a thick accent rattle off instructions to the others in the room. 

“How are you feeling?” the man asked. 

“Better,” Harry replied. It was true, but it didn’t explain the damn tingling in his legs, or the heaviness in the rest of his body. With the pain in his head subsiding, he was now more cognizant and another pain coursed through him. 

Guilt.

He had betrayed both Ron and Hermione with a single action, and it was eating him up. It was a sad thing that the aches in his body were such a habitual occurrence that it took a place at the back of his mind. He was scared that Ron would find out, giving his obstinate friend one more reason to think of him as selfish. 

“Can you tell me what happened when you took the potion?”

The question started Harry as he lie on an uncomfortable bed in a room that smelt like sterile potions and sickness. _Must be in St Mungo’s again,_ he thought ruefully. He hated this place. Being there meant he was weak and admitting that was worse that any curse that the Dark Lord could have ever delivered. 

“Mr Potter?” the voice asked expectantly.

“Yeah, sorry. Erm, well it hurt like hell,” Harry replied matter-of-factly. “I felt like there was something under my skin, crawling around. It itched and then there was nothing. I could hardly move.”

“Did you eat anything last night or today?”

“No, sir.”

“Hrm.”

Harry hated sounds like that. It meant that the Healer didn’t know what was wrong with him and that was worrying. 

“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked, hoping she was nearby. He needed the support, something familiar.

“She left when we woke you.”

“Can I see her? Can someone get her?”

“We’ll see what we can do. You’re stable now,” fforde-Fane said. “I’d like to run some tests, but I need to check a few things first. We’re going to move you upstairs to the Janus Thickey Ward. We have more specialised information at our fingertips there. Someone will be ’round soon. Try to relax and get some rest. Too much tension will only make things worse.”

“Okay,” Harry replied flatly. It was the only reply Harry had. He was completely helpless, at the mercy of whatever treatments they administered. Now all he had was his thoughts and it wasn’t a pretty idea. He didn’t want to think, and the potion seemed to be working, so he closed his eyes and tried to rest. They would wake him when the time came, but for now, he just wanted to sleep. Maybe the weight in his legs would go away, and maybe he’d feel like he used to….

****

~*~*~*~

Hermione didn’t know how long she’d been on the fifth floor, pacing; time just seemed to crawl by as she waited for word on Harry. She had no idea what to expect when she went back downstairs, but she hoped the best. Harry was strong. He was a fighter. 

With a cup of tea in hand, her fingers tightened around the porcelain, letting the warmth spread through her. Even the enchantments all around the hospital couldn’t warm her. The door opened and she took a sip from the liquid comfort before turning to see Draco Malfoy. _Great,_ she thought with dismay. 

“Hello, Granger,” he intoned neutrally. Hermione noted that he looked much better than the last time she had seen him five years ago. The sneer she was wont to expect never came, only making her wary of his intentions. Even if the last half decade had made Malfoy into a handsome man with less sharp features, he still looked as cold as ever. Part of her wondered if it was luck or poor genes that made him look like a statue that should be on display, rather than wearing the kitsch Healer’s robes. 

“Malfoy.”

“They’ve moved Potter to the fourth floor,” he said casually, taking a cup and pouring himself some tea from the enchanted kettle on one of the tables. 

“Thanks,” she replied stiffly. She felt incredibly uncomfortable with Malfoy so close by; his grey eyes were trained on her like the sights of a gun. He made his way toward her, his movements so fluid, practised and meant to draw attention. She found herself watching as the blond stopped across from her, his eyes curiously bright.

“May I sit?” 

“If you must.”

“Look, Granger, I just want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Your friend, of course.”

“I know you aren’t working Harry’s case, so why are you here?”

“To help.”

“Oh, come on, Malfoy. What’s in it for you? You never do anything without having some ulterior motives.”

“Granger, I’m not going to argue about the past with you. I said I’m here to help, and that’s the truth. I’m asking you to trust me.”

“And why should I?”

“Because fforde-Fane doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked defiantly. She knew Malfoy was intelligent, he would have to be in order to become a Healer, especially in Spell Damage, but she couldn’t forget the past so easily. Memories of Malfoy watching as his mad Aunt Bellatrix used the Cruciatus Curse against her surfaced vividly. She hoped he didn’t see her tense.

“If I can prove to you that fforde-Fane is wrong about Potter having Kneazle ’flu, will you transfer his care to me?”

“What! How can you ask me that?”

“If I can prove it, will you do it?”

“Why should I trust you, Malfoy?”

The door opened and a young witch walked in and stopped at the table where they sat. 

“Are you Miss Granger?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, standing.

“Healer fforde-Fane would like to see you. He’s had Mr Potter moved to the fourth floor for diagnostic testing. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll take you to his room.”

“Alright.”

“Remember what I said, Granger.”

“Healer Malfoy, Mr fforde-Fane would like a word with you as well.”

“Lead the way,” he said, cordially, a long arm extending before him, allowing the two women to leave ahead of him. 

Hermione’s mind was reeling with thoughts as they followed the corridor to Harry’s room. She hoped that he looked and sounded better than before; she didn’t know if she could take listening to him retch so horribly again.

The witch stopped in front of one of the rooms. “This is Mr Potter’s room,” she said and walked away. Hermione turned to watch as she retreated; Malfoy was still in the corridor, waiting outside of a closed door. She watched as he raised his pale hand and rapped on the wood, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. Once he entered, she crept down the hall and stopped beside the door, listening to Healer fforde-Fane’s easily distinguished drawl. The words were slightly muffled, but she could make enough of the conversation out.

_”Malfoy, what the hell do you think you’re doing? You are not here to peruse patient records at your leisure. If I catch you anywhere near Potter’s records again, you may find yourself without a job, do I make myself clear?”_

_“I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”_

_“You really are your father’s son, boy. Don’t play with me. I saw you with the chart. Stay away from Potter! And don’t even think about harassing Miss Granger, either. I will be keeping my eye on you.”_

_“Sir, I have some things to take care of. If you’ll excuse me.”_

_“Stay away from them, Malfoy. I’m warning you.”_

Hermione heard the handle of the door turn and quickly made her way back down the hallway. _Why is Malfoy looking at Harry’s records?_

Before she entered Harry’s room, she watched as Malfoy left the office, his face set confidently. 

The blond disappeared into one of the opened doors and Hermione didn’t spare another thought for him as she entered the room.

“Hermione?”

“Yeah, it’s me. How’re you feeling?”

“Like hell,” he replied. “Whatever they gave me is making me tired. I can barely move.”

“Then get some rest.”

“I can’t. They’re coming to do some more diagnostic spells. I’d just rather be at home. It’s no big deal.”

“Harry, it is a big deal. You can’t even Apparate without passing out.”

“It’s nothing. It’s just stress. Don’t worry so much.”

“It’s more than that, Harry, and you know it,” Hermione replied.

He shook his head slowly. “About this morning—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I want to apologise. It was wrong.”

Hermione decided that taking the pragmatic approach would be best; delaying the truth would only complicate matters, and she didn’t want Harry to worry any more than he already was.

“It was an accident. Don’t worry about it. We were both emotional…”

“I’m sorry,” Harry replied softly. 

“It’s okay. Really. We just can’t say anything to Ron,” Hermione finished. 

“No problem. He’s already being a prat; I don’t need any more shit from him.”

An uncomfortable silence descended around the two friends, one that felt like it would burst at any moment, surrounding them both in the reality of what had happened earlier that morning. 

“Harry, Malfoy came to talk to me when I was upstairs.”

“What did he want?” he spat in response.

“He wants me to turn your care over to him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But when I came down here, he went to talk to fforde-Fane, and he was told to stay away from you. He’s been looking at your records.”

“That fucking git!”

“Something’s going on, Harry.”

“Well—” Harry started, but was interrupted by the arrival his Healer. 

“How’re we feeling?” fforde-Fane asked in a falsely calm voice.

“Tired.”

“Good. We’re going to run some tests to see if we can’t get to the bottom of this, Mr Potter.”

“Fine.”

“Miss Granger, would you please wait outside? There’s a sofa just down the hall.”

Hermione was reluctant to leave, but she acquiesced. She had no idea what purpose would it serve to sit and wait as they performed their tests anyway. It’s not as if she could help in any way. She stood and three more Healers came in the room, their faces serious. 

“I’ll be back, Harry.”

Time passed slowly. Flipping through old copies of _Witch Weekly_ only irritated Hermione further. When a cacophony of voices erupted in the corridor, she looked up, fear welling in her chest as three figures rushed into Harry’s room, talking animatedly. 

The fourth floor was no longer quiet, voices were everywhere, all of them shouting. Panic welled in Hermione and she started to walk toward Harry’s room when she was stopped by Malfoy.

“What do you want?”

“He’s arresting,” Malfoy said, looking toward Harry’s room. 

“How do you know?” Hermione asked, panic welling within her.

Malfoy tapped the silvery bracelet barely visible beneath the cuff of his robes.

Hermione tried to shove passed the tall man before her. Her heart was racing, the need to be with her friend. “I know you don’t trust me, you have no reason to, but I’m right. Look here,” he said, gesturing toward the papers in his hand.

“fforde-Fane administered potions that only made Potter worse. I replaced his treatments and he got better. Every time. Something’s not right, but since fforde-Fane took over, I didn’t have time to figure it out. I can find out what’s wrong with him. If you leave him in fforde-Fane’s care, he’s going to end up dead. They’re already trying to revive him. Do you really want to wait until he’s dead?”

“How do you know that?”

“When I ran my initial scans, none of it made any sense. He’s got too much magic surrounding him for it to be random. I’m asking you to trust me. He’s going to die if you don’t make a decision.”

“fforde-Fane said it’s Kneazle ’flu, though.”

“Granger, you’re a smart witch. Kneazle ’flu is as rare as Dragon Pox,” Malfoy said impatiently. “You need to make a quick decision or else they are going to keep using magic to heal him, and it won’t work. It’s just going to make it worse.”

“No. I’m not doing it,” Hermione said adamantly. She just wanted the conversation to end so she could get back to Harry’s side.

Draco exhaled slowly, his face remaining calm. “What if I’m right?”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’m wrong,” he replied. “But I’m not.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s a feeling, but I know I’m right. fforde-Fane is a feckless bureaucrat, not a Healer. If he keeps casting spells and pouring potions down Potter’s gullet, your friend is going to die. You have the choice. You give me the word and they have to stop immediately. The more magic they use, the worse he’ll get.”

Draco turned to walk away, his shoulders squared and Hermione weighed her options; she was the one responsible for Harry’s care. It was down to a decision to make Malfoy the Healer-in-Charge or wait and see what happened. She didn’t want to take the chance that Malfoy was right, though. Not knowing what to do, she went with her instincts. Before she could stop herself, she called out to Malfoy.

“Malfoy!”

The blond turned partially, eyeing her. “Yes?”

“Do whatever you need to do.”

The sneer that she remembered from Hogwarts graced his features as he spoke, “I knew you’d see it my way.”

To be continued…


	5. Chapter 4

****

Chapter 4: Taking Charge

This was it. This is what Draco had wanted: Harry’s care turned over to him. Now he had it, and the realisation that things were about to get difficult settled over him. St Mungo’s wasn’t a private hospital, but if a patient’s next of kin demanded a new Healer, there were some considerations that could be made, however, defying fforde-Fane meant that Draco was about to become a private Healer. If he had just ignored Potter, if he hadn’t felt the need to steal Potter’s medical records… There were so many reasons why it had been a bad idea to continue obsessing over Potter, even if the best reason was really the worst.

One thing that Draco knew for sure was that St Mungo’s had an agreement with all private Healers and the Ministry. The moment he broke the news to fforde-Fane about the change of Potter’s Healer-in-Charge, the lumpy man would have to cease all treatments, giving Draco full access to whatever he needed. After the war, the need for Healers increased, especially with rogue Death Eaters still on the loose. While attacks had been dealt with easily enough, the number of the Dark Lord’s followers had been grossly underestimated, increasing the amount of Healers needed to handle the influx in injuries. 

The truth of the matter was that Draco honestly didn’t care if Potter lived or died, but he didn’t believe in letting someone die needlessly. He did have principles, including the oath he had taken when he became a Healer. The moment Potter had been brought to St Mungo’s, Draco saw the situation for what it was: an opportunity, a chance to prove his worth to the wizarding world, and he would prove himself. If he saved Potter, which he planned to do, the low hum of derision that always seemed to follow him would hopefully die to a bearable, merely irritating, buzz. 

Purposefully, Draco strode to his office and penned his resignation. If he was going to do this, then there was no turning back. Suddenly the familiar corridor became tight, a warning that Draco couldn’t shake. His anxiety levels rose, making him feel like he was racing against time. As quickly as the feeling descended, though, it was gone. 

Draco’s life was about to change dramatically. As Harry’s Healer full-time, he would have to spend a lot of time around the git, running tests, treating him, and trying to avoid any mention of the past. 

The past. The previous years were like a nightmare that never ended, and Draco still harboured hatred toward his father for making so many decisions for him. He tried to push the thoughts of the past away as he headed toward the medi-staff station. He needed a release form for Granger to sign. 

“Healer Malfoy!”

“Hello, Mina. I need a release form for a patient’s next of kin to request a new Healer.”

“Sure.” The young woman fumbled through a cabinet, searching for the form Draco needed. Watching her reminded Draco of Pansy in some ways. She looked at him with the same expression Pansy had when she thought they were still going to be married. It was quite a surprise to all of those involved, including Lucius when Draco had refused to wed the pug-faced witch. He had known that all of the mores of pure-blood society were changing, so he might as well admit, if only to himself, that he didn’t find witches attractive at all. While Lucius had been livid, there wasn’t much he could do about it locked away in Azkaban. 

“Here it is,” she said. “Sign here, Healer.”

Draco scratched his name onto the parchment, filling in Potter’s name, and Granger’s, since she was next of kin. The reason stated for the change of Healers was simple: inadequate care. 

“Take this to Miss Granger. She’s down the hall on the sofa,” Draco said, leaving the medi-staff station behind and making his way toward Potter’s room. “Bushy brown hair. You can’t miss her.”

“Yes, sir.”

The dull _thud_ of Draco’s heart sped up; each beat grew stronger than the last until the door to Potter’s room finally opened. The Healers were casting all manner of spells, attempting to revive the visibly lifeless _Saviour_. Granger had given him what he wanted, and as he stepped over the threshold, his confidence grew, stoked by the kindling of knowledge. He still wasn’t sure exactly how he knew that the magic was making Potter worse, but he didn’t want to ignore it, either. 

As he strode into the brightened room, the Healers looked at him with wary expressions before continuing their wand waving and spell casting. Healer fforde-Fane stopped mid-spell to stare at Draco, his eyes nearly slits, ire projected with the fast purpling of his chubby face. 

“I warned you, Malfoy,” fforde-Fane said, turning to look at one of the mediwizards. 

“Potter’s care has been turned over to me by his next of kin,” Draco replied coolly. Showing weakness would not help the situation, so he took a deep breath, bracing himself for the myriad of possibilities that had just opened up by his decision. 

“W-what?” fforde-Fane asked incredulously. “You can’t do that!”

“I can, and I have. Now, lower your wand and let me treat of _my_ patient.”

If words could wound, Draco would have left fforde-Fane with a few lacerations just by his tone. There was no doubt that Draco was serious, acumen was written on his features. His colleague’s faces were easy to read, their equivocal expressions giving away that while they respected him, they didn’t trust him. It was doubt. Pure and simple. They hesitated, lowering their wands, their eyes floating between him and Healer fforde-Fane.

Draco took a step forward, making an already stuffy room even more unbearable. 

The medical staff of the Janus Thickey Ward stepped away from Potter’s bed, resigned to the reality that Draco Malfoy, was now in charge of one Harry Potter’s treatment by request of one Hermione Granger. If any of them were disgusted, they hid it well. Draco’s story was well known in the wizarding world.

fforde-Fane’s features twisted, a snarl issuing from his fat lips. Draco ignored him, knowing that if he didn’t take charge now, chaos would ensue.

“Healer fforde-Fane, I’m going to have to ask you to leave; I have a patient to tend to.” Draco turned to two of the mediwizards, speaking carefully, “Are you familiar with Muggle resuscitation techniques?”

The two men nodded, rushing to Potter’s side. “Avoid magic at all cost, do you understand?” The mediwizards nodded again, setting to work: one began compressions against Potter’s exposed sternum, the other pinching the man’s nose, tilting his head, and exhaling into Potter’s mouth. 

Draco watched, willing the Muggle technique to revive Potter. This was the first time Potter had actually arrested, and Draco reasoned that the Side-Along-Apparition was merely a catalyst, activating some dormant problem that wasn’t detected by any spells that the Healers used for diagnostic treatment. Time was of the essence; making mistakes now was out of the question. 

Heavy breaths issued from the mediwizard applying compressions to Potter’s chest; the one breathing for the _Saviour_ checked for a pulse. Draco felt his speed up, waiting, helpless to intervene. He wasn’t familiar with Muggle medicine, but he was aware that it was required for the treatment of some patients who had sustained Dark curses. The sickening crack of a rib precipitated the mediwizard breathing for Potter to call out, “There’s a pulse.”

“Malfoy!” the lumpy man growled. “Mr Potter needs the care of more specialised Healers. What did you say to Miss Granger?”

“Healer, my apologies, but the time to talk has passed. If you would like to question the authority of _Miss Granger_ , then I suggest you talk to her about the appointment. Mr Potter’s care is paramount to any of your assumptions, now if you don’t mind, I’d like to treat _my_ patient.” Draco steadied his nerves, reaching for Potter’s flushed neck, seeking a pulse. A slight answering tap greeted his fingertips as they pressed against Potter’s neck. 

“Let him breathe,” Draco said. The mediwizards hadn’t moved. Potter’s head was held tilted with his chin toward the ceiling, one mediwizard with the heel of his palm still pressing against Potter’s chest. The air was heavy with expectation as everyone waited for Potter to wake. fforde-Fane stayed his eager tongue, but not for long. The impending tirade that was written across the Head of Spell Damage’s face was only stymied by Potter finally waking. Deep, rasping breaths issued from Potter’s limp form, his vivid eyes straining to open. He coughed a few times, wincing as grunts of discomfort filled the room. 

Draco took a chance; he reached for Potter’s fluttering eyelids, noting the colour and whether the pupils were dilated or not. He tried to avoid looking directly into the too-green eyes, but when they moved from side to side, seeming to take in the surroundings, the two men’s gazes centred on one another. It was as though Draco could see the pain that Potter felt, his eyes darting about wildly, like a caged animal, and he looked away; he was uncomfortable seeing such vulnerability from another person. The realisation that had the two of them still been at Hogwarts, Draco would have used such an opportunity to exploit Potter made him feel slightly sick. 

Being a Healer had taught Draco a lot about the world. He still believed in self-preservation, but the rhetoric that the Dark Lord had clung to had been left behind in his sixth year when he had been forced to compensate for his father’s failures. It had been years since he’d thought about manipulating someone who was weaker than he was; he liked to think that that was due to his training as a Healer, but part of him knew that wasn’t the case. He’d learned from other’s mistakes and wouldn’t allow himself to fall victim to distorted ideals any more. He may not agree with the Ministry or his boss, but he had the sense not to speak against them. 

“There will be no magic performed on P- _Mr_ Potter, is that clear?” Draco asked, looking at the Healers, mediwitches and wizards gathered in the small, nearly stifling room.

“Explain yourself, Malfoy!” fforde-Fane demanded. His podgy face was red, perspiration beading on his wrinkled forehead. 

“I’m not at liberty to discuss a _private_ patient’s condition with anyone. I’m sure you understand, Healer.”

“You selfish little upstart! You’re finished! Do you hear me?”

“Healer, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. My patient doesn’t need any more stress.”

“You can’t make me leave! This is my ward!”

“I’m sorry, _sir_ ,” Draco began, his voice dripping with disdain, “You are aware of the Ministry decree that St Mungo’s is to accommodate any private Healer if their patient is in need of the resources of this establishment, are you not?”

fforde-Fane’s teeth ground together, the sound of saliva slicked enamel audible over Potter’s soft breathing. A murmur of shock circled the room as fforde-Fane turned and left, the door slamming with a loud _bang_. 

Draco turned to eye Potter, whose eyes were open wide, looking around the room. 

“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice was rough in Draco’s ears. “What the hell is going on?”

Looking at Potter was difficult. There were so many emotions that stemmed from within Draco regarding this one person, that he found himself unable to look at the other man. “You are having adverse reactions to the treatment that Healer fforde-Fane administered. I’ve taken over your care.”

“What? Why?” he asked, sitting up. The hiss of pain didn’t go unnoticed by Draco.

“Because you don’t have Kneazle ’flu, Potter.”

“How do you know?”

“Enough questions for now. I need to speak with Granger. You’re going home today. I’ll be dealing with your care privately from now on.”

“The hell you will!”

“Language, Potter. Unless you feel like having _fits_ every time you take a potion, I suggest you accept my help.”

“How—”

Draco raised his hand and interrupted Potter before he could continue, “Rest. You need it. I’m going to talk to Granger.” Draco turned to eye the other occupants of the room, anything not to look at Potter. “Anyone else have anything to say?” Draco asked coolly. The various faces shook from side to side as they resumed their work. “Someone wrap Potter’s ribs. I don’t want any potions near him. I’ll be back in a moment.”

The cool, crisp air of the hallway was welcome to Draco’s lungs. He felt like they had been stuffed with cotton, making breathing difficult. Potter shouldn’t be making him so uncomfortable, but he was. 

Draco shook off the confusion and headed down the hall; he needed to talk to Granger.

**~*~*~*~**

Time ticked by, making Hermione’s head spin as she waited for some news about Harry’s condition. She had been pacing, reading magazines, and none of it made the tension dissipate. She had just taken a seat again, tired of pacing when she saw two redheaded women emerge from the lift. _Great,_ she thought, eyeing the two Weasley women.

“Where is Harry, dear?” Mrs Weasley asked, her voice soft and motherly. 

“Down the hall. Malfoy’s with him now.”

“Malfoy?”

“He’s a Healer in Spell Damage now.”

“Well, it’s good to know he’s doing something productive.” Mrs Weasley’s words were said quietly, but Hermione understood her all too well. Malfoy’s involvement in Bill’s disfigurement hadn’t been forgotten, even if Harry had spoken in favour of the only child of Lucius and Narcissa.

“What happened, Hermione?” Ginny asked, her face wan.

Stifling the anger toward Ginny was difficult, but Hermione managed, holding her jaw tightly as she replied, “I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” Hermione eyed Ginny carefully; she knew that if she said the wrong thing that it wouldn’t only make sitting and waiting harder. 

“Because I haven’t had a chance to speak with Malfoy yet, that’s why.”

“Ginny, dear, why don’t you go wait upstairs while Hermione and I talk?”

“No! I want to know if Harry’s alright.”

Hermione knew that arguing wouldn’t help matters, but a soft “Hello” from behind her kept her from commenting further. She wanted to say that Ginny had no right to be there, that Harry wouldn’t want to see her, but she held her tongue. She turned to see who had spoken, her eyes settling on Luna Lovegood.

“Luna! What are you doing here? Is your father okay?”

“He’s fine,” she said, turning her head to the side to look at the trio of women. “I heard Harry was sick and wanted to check on him. Kneazle ’flu is deadly if left untreated.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“It’s in the _Prophet_. I didn’t believe it at first, so I thought I’d come see for myself. I have a necklace that my dad gave me for Harry.”

“We can’t see him yet,” Hermione said, turning to look at the two Weasley women. 

“Oh, I can wait,” Luna said, taking a seat next to Ginny. “Why are you here?” Luna’s sights were centred on Ginny as she asked the question; Mrs Weasley’s face crumpled.

“That’s none of your business.”

“I just thought since you and Neville started seeing one another that you wouldn’t want to bother Harry. Are you living with Neville, then? I haven’t seen him for some time. I hope he’s doing well at Hogwarts.”

Red began to colour Ginny’s freckled cheeks as she folded her arms over her chest defiantly. Hermione could tell she was trying to ignore the jab, but silently congratulated Luna for her observation. 

“That is none of your concern, Luna,” Mrs Weasley said pointedly. 

Luna looked at the Weasley matriarch, her lips parting in response, but Malfoy’s cool voice stopped her impending argument.

“Granger,” Malfoy said, nodding with feigned sociability at Mrs Weasley, Ginny, and Luna.

“Malfoy. How is he?”

“Can we speak privately?”

“Hello, Draco,” Luna said, dreamily. “I see you finally got rid of the Nargles in your hair. It will make you a better Healer.”

“Lovegood.” 

Hermione stood without hesitation, following Malfoy as he headed toward Harry’s room. 

“Did you sign the parchment that Mina brought to you?” he asked.

“Yes.” 

“Good. I’m going to get straight to the point, Granger; Potter’s alive.” Hermione sighed with relief, bracing herself against the rough, institutional wall. “He needs to go home. Do you have Muggle transportation?”

“Yes.”

“Take him home. No magical transport, do you understand?”

“I got it, Malfoy,” Hermione snapped. She didn’t like him speaking to her as though she were a child.

Malfoy reached in his pocket and withdrew a silver bracelet, extending it to Hermione. “What’s this?” she asked, accepting it.

“Tap it twice with your wand if you need me. Potter needs to rest. I will check on him tomorrow. Mina is bringing an enchanted wheelchair for Potter to use at home. It’s got Cushioning and Steering Charms. The magic in it shouldn’t affect him too much. He can’t use any magic, nor have magic used on him. No potions, nothing.”

“Okay.”

Questions bubbled in Hermione’s mind as Malfoy turned to walk away. It was then that she remembered Malfoy didn’t know where Harry lived and that as the Secret Keeper, she would have to give the former Slytherin access to Harry’s home without his permission. She hesitated, then called out, “Malfoy.”

“Yes?”

For once Hermione was glad she carried her purse with her. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, scribbling on it against the wall before the ink left the tip.

_Hightrees is located at number six, Church Street, Ropley._

Draco took the slip of paper and read it, looking at Hermione with a carefully schooled expression of irritation. 

“He has a Fidelius Charm on his house?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable,” Malfoy muttered.

“You have to Apparate to Hale Close. The Floo access is limited, and there aren’t many who know where Harry lives. He got tired of people bothering him.”

“I’m sure he did.” Hermione didn’t miss the facetious tone, nor the slip in Malfoy’s carefully constructed mask. “I’ll be there at nine tomorrow morning. Make sure he sleeps. And he needs to limit his movement for the next few days. I’ll explain more tomorrow, but right now he’s to use the wheelchair to get around. He has one, possibly two, broken ribs, and they’ll have to heal the Muggle way.”

“Thanks,” Hermione replied.

“It’s my job,” he said, walking away.

To be continued…


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: The Lion’s Den**

It had been two days since Potter had been released from St Mungo’s into Draco’s care. Granger had been diligent about keeping him informed of Potter’s progress away from magic; she had talked aimlessly, irritating Draco’s already frayed nerves. The only upside had been that Potter had seemed to be coping well enough in his home. For the most part, he had slept, waking for brief moments, taking a few sips of water, a bite of whatever Granger had cooked, and then had gone back to sleep. While the amount of sleeping had seemed a bit off to Draco, he hadn’t minded it, either. The longer Potter was resting, the longer Draco had to think about how to handle the situation. For once, he chided himself for acting like a bloody Gryffindor, eagerly rising to the challenge that had presented itself to him. He was now in territory that he wasn’t familiar with, and while some thrived in that sort of environment, Draco didn’t. The Vanishing Cabinet and all of the peripheral stress that had come with it had been perfect examples. Potter’s condition was a challenge, but it was also completely unknown. Part of him could see the _Prophet_ headlines now. They would be full of fantastic tales about vengeance, betrayal, evil. 

Good intentions aside, Draco knew that should he fail, he would be enemy number one as far as the wizarding world was concerned. The last time he took on an impossible task, people had died, others had been injured severely, and he lost the pieces of himself that had made him fundamentally innocent. It wouldn’t matter to the wizarding world that either he completed the task or his life and those of his family were forfeit. Looking back, Draco had known that the Dark Lord would eventually fall; it had just been a matter of when. 

He hadn’t been quite sure what to expect when he Apparated to Ropley. In his mind’s eye, Potter lived in a house that looked just like the Weasley Burrow or something similar, but to his surprise, Potter had seemed to have a little more taste. He had left Hale Close with the crisp November air licking his cheeks; pulling the cowl of his cloak over his head had been the only barrier between him and Mother Nature’s cruel affections. The trees lining Church Street were bare, but he hadn’t terribly interested them and had continued on his path, reading the house numbers. As he had got closer to what he thought would be the location of Potter’s home, Hightrees, he had stopped, watching casually as the Fidelius Charm revealed the location.

In a break between the Muggle houses, a black, wrought iron fence had begun to twist into view, expanding until the tall, white pillar of the main house had blossomed into existence, expanding until the smoke swirling from the chimney had billowed high into the nearly clear skies. He had smirked as he viewed the house, understanding the name behind it immediately. It loomed over the rest of the homes; its russet-coloured shingles had reflected in the early morning sun, glittering in Draco’s eyes. He had approached slowly, taking in the details around him. 

The curved bricks beneath Draco’s feet had shifted slightly as he approached the black door nestled beneath the white façade of the tallest part of the house. Granger had greeted him with a worried expression, rambling until he had stopped her.

“Granger, stop. Where is he?”

“In the spare room. We couldn’t get the wheelchair up the stairs, so he’s been asleep down here,” she had said, her voice trembling. 

“Show me.”

Granger had lead Draco to the spare room, trying to stay quiet, but it had got to the point where Draco insisted that she leave. Distractions would only make things worse, and Draco had no room for mistakes. After checking Potter’s vitals, Draco had examined his arms briefly, looking for any discolouration. At least if there were any odd colours to Potter’s skin, Draco might be able to continue with his poison theory; however, there had been no obvious signs to make him continue thinking that poison was the reason Potter was so ill. 

With Potter’s charts in hand, Draco sat at his desk, going through each detail. None of the Auror’s previous injuries related to his current symptoms. Then there was the obvious mystery as to why Potter seemed to pass out every time he Apparated somewhere. Draco found himself wondering what that would be like; Apparition was already uncomfortable enough, but to end up in darkness on the other side….

Draco tried not to contemplate it too much; keeping his distance from Potter would make it easier to think, allowing him the chance to find solutions to what he knew were more complicated problems than he’d initially imagined. He would have to ask Potter some questions about his health in the past, personal questions, ruling out simple ailments before he could really begin to pinpoint what was truly happening to the Saviour. He had a feeling that Potter wouldn’t be very forthcoming with information, but he needed to do it. 

A loud knock startled Draco; he hadn’t realised how intently he had been reading Potter’s records until the familiar sound of knuckles against wood broke the spell. He quickly put all of the records in his desk drawer, locking it, then leaving to answer the door. His thoughts were concentrated, focussed as he reached the door, opening it. 

On the opposite side of the threshold stood Benedict, his long hair waving in the autumn air. 

“Hello, Draco. May I?” he asked, gesturing for admittance. 

“Benedict,” Draco said stiffly, moving aside to permit his lover entrance into his home. The brunet made his way to the sitting room, taking a seat. 

“Would you like a drink?” Draco offered, trying to maintain a mask of indifference. He supposed it had been foolish to think that Benedict Mercer would give up as easily as he had hoped. Draco was hardly a masochist, and he knew that maintaining his relationship with the man would only make his life more difficult. 

“I won’t turn one down,” Benedict replied smoothly. 

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee is fine.”

Draco Summoned tea for himself and a cup of coffee for his lover, waiting for the tempest to be loosed. Their last conversation hadn’t been one that Draco had wanted to remember; it was another reason why cutting his ties with the man would be better for him. He had been careless, blinded by his own zeal for answers. Benedict knew too much, and that made him a liability as far as Draco was concerned. No matter how he really felt about Potter, he realised how foolish it had been to filch the man’s medical records. If he hadn’t resigned, he could very well find himself facing the Wizengamot and a lengthy stay in Azkaban Fortress alongside his father; that thought alone made him shiver with sickness. He wouldn’t survive in Azkaban; he knew that without a doubt.

“How was your trip?” Draco began lightly. He wanted to keep the conversation as neutral as possible, attempting to avoid any more rows like the last one. Benedict’s false smile and lazy demeanour irked Draco.

“Very informative. It’s too bad you couldn’t make it, but as I understand it, you’ve been quite busy here.” A dark eyebrow quirked in question as Benedict played with the selvage of his robes, picking at some invisible strand of out of place fabric, his horribly shallow expression proof that Draco just needed to end this unsatisfying relationship. “I heard about your resignation at St Mungo’s. What’s all this about, Draco?”

“I was assigned as a private Healer to a patient.” So what if he had overstepped the lines of Healers and patients, stealing records that he had no right to touch. To Draco, he was doing the right thing, no matter the circumstances surrounding his actions. Someone was in need of help – he was the man for the job. _Hero complex_ , he thought derisively. _Maybe Potter and I have more in common than I thought._

“Who just happens to be Harry Potter, Saviour of the wizarding world from the Dark Lord.” His final words were spat with reverence, a familiar tone to Draco since his aunt Bellatrix had been completely besotted with the megalomaniac. While his father had been keen on the Dark Lord’s rhetoric, he was merely a sycophant, a man who would stop at nothing to see his own vision of the future realised with the rise of Voldemort.

“And?”

“What are you doing to yourself? Can’t you see that no matter what you do, you still won’t have their respect? They’re all Muggle-lovers and traître à ton sang – blood traitors .”

“I’m doing my job as a Healer. No more, no less.”

“Right,” Benedict replied acerbically. “The _Prophet_ has many speculations about your motivations. Care to enlighten me?”

The expression on Benedict’s face didn’t sit well with Draco. It was as though he knew something that he wasn’t telling, some secret that would condemn Draco if he gave away too much information. He steadied himself by taking a sip of his tea, and replied, “My motivations are to do my job. I took an oath as a Healer to treat to the sick. How you know who my patient is is irrelevant, but it is, in fact, none of your concern.” 

“I was just curious. My sources are rarely wrong, that’s all. I would have liked to have heard this from you, but I understand that you value your little secrets.”

Scenarios flashed through Draco’s mind, reminding him that Benedict had more contacts than he. After all, Benedict had been in France for most of his life, never really feeling the weight of war in his tiny world, and mind. Although Draco hadn’t always shown compassion for others, he had felt it, carefully guarding his true feelings and thoughts from his family and friends. He had wanted then, and now, to survive. He couldn’t have done that with his emotions getting in the way. Many of the people who had supported him after the war were alive because of him: Granger, Potter, Weasley – all of them. He had known all along that it had been Potter that Greyback had captured in the wild when the werewolf had brought the trio of Gryffindors to his home. He had been scared, had been broken, by the madness that he and his family had endured while the Dark Lord lived in their home. Draco took a sip of his tea, trying to force those memories farther from the forefront of his mind. There were other things he now had to consider, and one of them was how exactly he was going to deal with Benedict.

Benedict appeared cool, but Draco knew that the grin forcing up the corners of his mouth was merely a distraction. The man was completely heartless, and that reminder made Draco wonder what he saw in him to begin with. Good looks aside, Draco needed more than Benedict was giving – he knew it was time to move on.

“Benedict,” he began, “I think it’s time—” 

Draco’s words died on his tongue when a silvery otter burst through the wall and stopped in front of him, Granger’s voice spread into the room, undulating with highs and lows. “Malfoy, Harry isn’t responding, come now !”

Draco’s temples began to pulse and throb with heaviness as he stood. “You need to leave,” he said quickly. The man across from him didn’t even flinch at the words. “Now!” Draco yelled. 

A scowl crossed Benedict’s features, twisting a handsome face into one that Draco wanted to turn away from, disgusted with the obvious irritation on his lover’s features. He stood slowly, a predator ready to strike at his prey. “You and I need to have a little talk, Draco. I expect to see you at my place at seven.”

“Fine, just go,” Draco snapped. _Why didn’t she use the bloody bracelet?_ The _crack_ of Disapparation was loud to Draco’s ears as he set the wards on his home and Disapparated to Hale Close.

He nearly ran to Potter’s house, damning the limited access to Hightrees and Potter for whatever sickness that caused all of this to begin with. He was unsettled and irritated with Benedict, knowing that when he arrived at that man’s house later, things weren’t going to be pretty. 

The familiar Muggle houses began to distort as the Fidelius Charm revealed Hightrees. The gate opened with a creak as he ran through; Granger must have been looking out the window because as he came to a halt to knock on the black door, it opened and Granger’s crinkled face met him. 

“Where is he?”

“The spare room taking a bath. He won’t answer.”

Draco spat a soft curse as he tried to catch his breath moving through the large entrance of the house. The bed was empty and the Enchanted wheelchair still beside it. _Stupid,_ Draco thought as he found the bathroom door to his right. He reached for the handle, hoping that Potter hadn’t been stupid enough to use magic to lock it. The handle gave when he twisted it, the sturdy door opening quickly with the force of his movements. The large bathroom was humid when he rushed in, Potter’s naked frame sprawled in the bath. The water ran still, pounding against the contents of the porcelain basin and echoed into the room loudly. 

“Potter!” 

Potter’s eyes were closed, his long lashes touching flushed cheeks. Messy black hair covered in water clung to his face and head, hiding his scar. “Potter, wake up!” Draco demanded, stooping against the edge of the tub. He reached for the man in the water, his fingertips trembling as they slid along Potter’s jaw, trying to get a grip on the man’s face. _Steady now,_ he reminded himself, knowing that if he rushed, things could go badly. Draco started to reach for Potter’s neck to check for a pulse when water splashed on him, and hot, wet hands tangled in his hair. 

“Malfoy? What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes blinking in confusion. His heavily lidded eyes widened, and he began to yell, “What the hell are you doing? Get out of here!”

Draco released his hold on the other man and backed away. The fire in Potter’s eyes was intense, burning him with discomfort. He wondered at that moment if this had been a good idea after all. Limbs moved quickly to cover exposed skin and body parts with soft hisses of pain coming from parted lips at each movement. Their gazes locked on one another, and the same discomfort that had gripped Draco at St Mungo’s haunted him again. 

“GET OUT!” he yelled again, his voice painfully loud, cracking from lack of use. The large purple bruise in the centre of Potter’s chest seemed amplified, sickly and grotesque against his unusually clear skin. The hair on his chest was flat, water dripping down the relief of Potter’s muscles. Even Draco had to envy that about Potter. His own chest still had the silvery remnants of the spell that Potter had flung at him in their sixth year at Hogwarts. The discomfort ebbed inside Draco as a voice in the back of his mind told him to leave, to do as Potter commanded, but he couldn’t move. 

Potter growled loudly, and Draco found his voice. “Get out of the bath,” he snapped and turned to leave, but something wasn’t right. There was a scent to the room’s atmosphere that made him stop and inhale the familiar spice. He closed his eyes and allowed the fragrance to fill his nose and lungs when it hit him. He turned and looked at Potter, his eyes searching for an amber coloured bottle. 

He ignored Potter’s protests as he approached and reached for the glass container. The label was beginning to peel, but he knew exactly what it was. “Is this in the water?” Draco asked, holding out the bottle in front of Potter’s eyes. Defiant green eyes stared at him, making him remember why he had hated this man so much in their youth. “Is this in the water?” he snapped again, green eyes darting to the vial. 

“Yes,” Potter growled in response, his mouth twisted in irritation. 

“Get out of the water! Now!”

“Give me some bloody privacy, Malfoy!”

“Fine.” He gripped the bottle in his hand and left, slamming the door behind him. Granger stood in the doorway of the bedroom, wringing her hands.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Draco replied shortly. “Did you know he had this?” he asked, showing her the bottle.

“N-no. What is it?”

“It’s a muscle relaxing potion made for the bath. It’s still a _potion_ , Granger. I said no magic, no potions—” Draco stopped when he realised his voice had steadily grown until he was yelling at the woman. He took a deep breath and steadied his nerves before continuing, “This sort of thing can kill him, don’t you see that? Until I find out what’s wrong, magic is completely off limits! He has to live like a Muggle until we can figure this out.”

“I-I didn’t know,” Granger replied. Her voice trembled as she moved to sit on the bed. “What’s going on with him?”

“I don’t know,” Draco replied, wondering what was taking Potter so long. “When did he wake up?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Has he eaten?”

“No.”

Draco ran his hand through his hair, trying to remain calm. He was pissed off that Granger could let something so simple happen. “Why didn’t you go in?”

“He’s my friend, Malfoy. I didn’t want to invade his privacy. Wh-what if he’d—” she stopped. “I didn’t feel comfortable, okay?”

“And the bracelet? What happened to it?”

“I panicked, alright?” She stood and walked to the window and drew the curtains. Sunlight spread across the floor as they waited, Draco quickly losing his patience. When the silence had become unbearable for him and no sounds came from the bathroom, he moved without thinking, opening the bathroom door again. Potter was on his hands and knees breathing heavily a visible tremor running through his legs. Personal feelings shifted and Draco’s training took over. He reached for Potter, his arms wrapping around the broad shoulders and lifted him into a standing position. 

“What are you doing? Let me go.”

“Potter, it’s been almost twenty minutes,” Draco said, holding the shorter man firmly in his grasp. Their chests pressed together, and Draco shifted his grip. “What happened? Why were you on the floor?”

“It’s nothing,” Potter said, trying to pull free of Draco’s hold. Their bodies pressed against one another uncomfortably and Draco stilled as Potter shifted again. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”

“Fine,” Draco said, loosening his hold. He suspected that there was more to this than Potter was admitting. As soon as his hold slackened, Potter’s knees bent and he nearly fell to the floor. He caught the muscular man, ramming their bodies together. A low hiss filled the room as he held onto the trembling body. “You have some explaining to do, Potter.”

“Can I at least get some bloody clothes on first, or do you want to chat like this?”

“Where are your robes?” Draco asked, looking around.

“No, Hermione can help me.”

“Potter, this isn’t some game—”

“I want Hermione to help,” he interrupted.

“Fine. Sit down and I’ll get her.” Draco tried to contain his irritation, but it was difficult. In the past, Potter had always drawn the worst from him, easily exciting his anger and frustration without trying. He was too damn proud and that had always perturbed Draco. He thought that Potter would have changed over time, but it seems his expectations were unjustified. Potter would never change; he had no reason to. He was attention-seeking and had always found a way to sway others by simply being The Chosen One. It rankled that he was trying to do his job – the job that kept him alive – and he still resisted. 

Draco helped Potter to sit and left the room, feeling uncomfortable with the situation. If Granger would have simply checked on Potter, he wouldn’t have had to endure the man naked and helpless, still fighting. 

“He wants your help,” Draco snapped. “Get him in the wheelchair and bring him out here.”

Draco knew now that the only option was the last one he wanted. Potter was careless, and he had relied on Granger’s intelligence too much. He had expected her to easily spot such a simple thing a potion used in baths, but apparently, that hadn’t entered her mind. It was all magic. And now Potter was having trouble standing on top of everything else. He wanted answers, and he would get them. The irritating voice in his head told him that he was in over his head and that if he didn’t take this job on full-time – in Potter’s home – that something bad was going to happen. He found the sitting room and sat and the sofa, exhaling, trying to ease some of the tension that had built up since the Patronus had arrived. 

To be continued…


	7. Chapter 6

Beta’d by the wonderful Romany. Thanks for everything!

**Chapter 6: The Might of Broken Men**

What felt like hours had passed as Draco sat on the sofa waiting for Potter and Granger to emerge from the bedroom. A clock chimed loudly, encouraging the headache that had been slowly increasing in strength since he had arrived at Hightrees. He could hear the two former Gryffindors arguing steadily, Potter insistent that he could walk just fine, then the hard smack of knees against wood and a sharp hiss of pain followed by Granger’s voice. Draco shook his head, slowly massaging his temples as he heard the dull thud of metal against wood when Potter tried to manoeuvre the wheelchair through the bedroom doorway. Draco knew that the stubborn git would continue to protest and braced himself for the temper of Saint Potter. He watched the chair glide across the floor, Granger taking slow steps behind Potter.

“I can walk just fine, Malfoy,” Potter said, the green of his eyes barely visible. “How the hell does this thing work, anyway?”

“It’s like a broom, Potter. I assume that you can still lean forward and backward as need be, correct?”

Draco watched as the muscles in Potter’s jaw began to bulge from the side of his face; what was he to do? He realised that Potter had lost quite a bit of his freedom, but that couldn’t be helped. The situation was obviously more complicated than he’d imagined from the start, or else Potter wouldn’t be a wobbling mess on his legs, nor would he have been so disoriented from a simple muscle relaxing bath potion. Granger took a seat, her face scrunched with worry, and Potter stopped beside the sofa, his jaw quivering each time he clenched his teeth together. Draco didn’t have to like the other man to know that the entire situation was fucked; he would hate the loss of mobility as much as Potter seemed to – at least he could still perform his job. 

The silence continued until Granger finally shifted to look at Draco and Potter, the corners of her eyes wrinkling as she began to speak, “What’s going on with Harry?” She directed her question to Draco, but her eyes focussed on Potter, worry swimming in their depths.

“I don’t know,” Draco replied coolly. “It would seem that magic is effecting Potter’s ability to do…. Well, anything.”

“What could cause something like that to happen?” she asked.

Draco looked at Granger and offered a half-smile before responding, “I only have theories right now, but after today, I’m going to have to re-think some things. You see, the potion that Potter had in his bath seems just as lethal to him as any he might ingest.” Draco turned to look at the brooding man and asked, “How long have your legs been bothering you, Potter?”

Granger looked at Harry, her expression pleading for an answer, but Potter sat mutely, his gaze never shifting from the windows on the far side of the room. Draco wasn’t sure if he didn’t want to answer because of pride, or because Granger was present, but then he realised it probably had more to do with his presence than anything else. He and Potter had no reason to communicate such intimate details to one another; Potter hadn’t asked Draco to be his Healer, after all, Granger had. 

“Harry?” Granger asked, her tone coaxing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Potter replied. He turned to face Draco, his jaw still tight. “I can walk just fine.” Even through the clipped words, Draco could decipher the taut lines in Potter’s face. Admitting to weakness was probably one of the hardest things for someone like Potter, someone who always ended up on the top of the world no matter what. He’d never experienced the same bitter looks that Draco had in the aftermath of the Dark Lord. He has been lauded as the Saviour, the one who gave them back their lives.

“Your pride is one thing, Potter, but I’m a Healer. You forget that I’ve had a few years to listen to patients lie about their symptoms. If you could walk just fine, you wouldn’t have been on the floor on the bathroom. You also wouldn’t have nearly fallen without my assistance,” Draco asserted. “I ask you again, how long have your legs been bothering you?”

Potter found his focal point again and didn’t speak. The man’s face was undulating with the movement of muscle beneath skin, and Draco laid his hands in his lap; he was a patient man. Potter was not going to get the best of him, not now. This was his area of expertise, and he would be damned if he was going to let Potter get under his skin. 

“You have two options, Potter: you can either start talking, or Granger can take you back to St Mungo’s. It’s your choice, but I warn you, fforde-Fane nearly killed you once with his meddling. He might succeed if you go back, so unless you have a death wish, you had better get used to the fact that I am your Healer. After today, I think we may need to come to some arrangements, though. It’s obvious that I can’t trust others to keep you from harming yourself, whether by accident or intentionally.”

“And what do you get out of all this, Malfoy?” Potter spat.

“The knowledge that another person is alive.” The truth was that Draco got a whole lot more than that. He would be able to repay the favour Potter had granted him not five years ago in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts during the final battle. He would be able to stand on par with his colleagues for once, proving that he had a place as a Healer in the wizarding world. Draco had no doubt that if he failed, the Ministry would surely lock him away in Azkaban, but his fear of that kept him prepared. He was in this for better or worse now – there was no turning back.

“Oh, come off it! And how much am I paying you for this private treatment, huh?” Potter’s voice was acidic to Draco’s ears, burning him with each word. He thought that had their positions been reversed – and they had been – he’d have the sense to show a little more decorum. Potter acted wounded, as though Draco had intentionally hurt him in order to reap some reward for his work. It irritated him that Potter showed no gratitude for what he had done. He’d saved Potter’s life! Draco schooled his features, reining in the urge to snap at Potter, feeling that all responses would be catalogued and recalled whenever the tempestuous former Gryffindor decided he needed to lash out at the world. In the span of an hour, Potter had already proven that his volatility hadn’t waned much over the years.

“I understand that this is painfully new, and my precipitous entrance into the bathroom probably didn’t help.” The burning humiliation on Potter’s face told Draco that he was right. It didn’t take a brilliant mind to interpret the anger that had flared behind those vivid green eyes. Seeing the defensive hunch of Potter’s shoulders also showed that maybe Draco had been a little too presumptuous when he entered the bathroom unbidden, but there was a niggling reminder at the back of his thoughts that screamed had he not intruded, that Potter could possibly be dead. Draco also knew that to expect recompense for Potter’s treatment would be stupid since he’d demanded Granger turn Potter’s care over to him. “I took on your case because I don’t want to see you dead, and I have no doubt that if fforde-Fane and the others had continued – rather than sitting here - you would be. I expect no compensation; however, I do ask that you at least show a little bit of good faith.” Potter scoffed, drawing the damning irritation from Draco’s core even further. Emphasising his point, Draco’s tone grew harder as he continued, “I’m not doing this for me. If you’re uncomfortable talking with Granger around, we can save this matter for later this evening. There is no way around it, though. It will be impossible for me to come running from Hale Close every time something happens to you. I need to be here” – Draco held up his hand to stop Potter from commenting – “to make sure that you get immediate attention. I suspect that once you stop using magic, things will return to normal, but I am not certain of that. There are a lot of things that I don’t know; therefore, I will have to ask you a lot of questions in order to provide you with the best care.” 

“So what does that mean?” Potter questioned. The look on his face was priceless; for an Auror, he was still as clueless as he had been at Hogwarts. “What are you saying, Malfoy?”

Draco masked his irritation with Potter’s inability to see the obvious and replied, “Moving in, Potter. I think that’s the only option.”

“What? No way! You’re not living here.” Potter shook his head back and forth, his hands before him as though he were protecting himself from some invisible attack. Maybe he considered Draco’s words an attack, an invasion into his space.

“Do you have a better idea?” Draco couldn’t help the acrimonious tone that slipped past his lips so easily. 

Potter looked at Draco, his eyes burning with the same ire as the bathroom, and Draco repressed a shudder. The look was too intimate, too intense, making him feel uncomfortable. Potter sighed heavily, turning toward the windows once again, as though salvation – an answer – lay behind their clear panes. 

“This is too much,” Potter uttered, his voice hard. Granger laid a hand on his knee, trying to offer comfort, but he pushed it away, his pride as vast as a Quidditch pitch. 

“It would only be while I’m treating you. It’s hardly because I will enjoy your company,” Draco replied haughtily. Did Potter honestly think that Draco wanted to spend all of his time with him? While he didn’t have much of a life, he enjoyed the little pleasures that his money provided, and that included social gatherings of the wizarding elite, people he needed to impress in order to make it past Draco Malfoy: former Death Eater.

Granger shot Draco a hard look as he spoke, her eyes burning with some silent plea to give it up, to end the petty rivalry. The problem was that Draco really didn’t want to live with Potter, and now he was being forced into it because whatever sickness was plaguing Potter left no other options. Until Draco was able to gather more information about Potter’s symptoms, they would both be grasping for smoke – there were too many illnesses in the wizarding world to begin guessing. If Draco had learned anything in the past four years he had worked at St Mungo’s, it was that finding the cause overruled treating symptoms, but he needed to find out what those were first.

“What about the Floo Network? Can’t I just have the Floo opened to you?” Harry reasoned, trying to grasp for any solution that would keep him from sharing his space with Draco. It was inevitable. It seemed that no matter how far Draco had tried to get away from Potter, the man was always around.

“There are still houses in the wizarding world without Floo access, including mine, and I don’t want to be vilified as the murderer of the Saviour,” Draco emphasised. “I can’t Apparate inside your protections, and you can’t make any changes to them right now – doing so would jeopardise your life.”

Potter scowled in response. Draco could tell he was ruminating over other options, but in the end, it came down to whether Potter really cared about his own life. All of the decisions were up to him to make; if Potter couldn’t see the dilemma for what it was, it wasn’t Draco’s place to point it out. 

“He’s right,” Granger said. “You could adjust them, but it’s too risky. It isn’t worth it.” 

Potter chewed his bottom lip, the edges of his teeth folding the cherry-red skin, his tongue darting out quickly, soothing it upon release. Draco turned his attention away, trying to come up with another solution, but nothing seemed plausible. Potter couldn’t use magic, and Draco didn’t want to chance finding out what might happen if he did. He felt like he was in a foreign land, trying to navigate without knowledge of the language or culture. Knowledge was power, but he had none. Without information from Potter, he was just as clueless, and he didn’t like that. He was a logical person, good at reasoning things through, but without information, he was stuck. 

“But—” Potter tried.

“But nothing,” Granger interrupted. “He’s all you have. I saw what you looked like, Harry. I don’t have to be a Healer to see that Malfoy’s right.”

Potter sighed again, pulling his wet hair in frustration. Draco realised that he probably just made his life harder, but he didn’t want to have to keep running back and forth when he had no idea of what Potter could get himself into in his absence. He remembered enough of their days at Hogwarts to know that trouble seemed to follow Potter like a leashed animal tagging along behind him.

After what seemed like forever, Potter finally acquiesced. With a resigned sigh, he called out, “Kreacher!”

An old, frail-looking house-elf appeared before Potter and bowed. “How can Kreacher help Master?”

“Can you move my things from the Master Suite downstairs to the spare room? Malfoy is going to take the Suite.”

“Yes, Master Harry. Is there anything else Kreacher can do for Master?”

“If you find any of Ginny’s things, will you please put them away in a box?”

“Anything for Master Harry.”

“Thanks, Kreacher.”

The elf disappeared with a _pop_ , and Draco sat watching Granger and Potter. Silence fell around the room, each of them seeming to need their own reprieve from the enormity of the situation. No one spoke until Potter turned his chair around and began to head for the spare room. Granger hopped from the sofa, trying to console her friend, but he turned her away, asking her to show Draco to the Master Suite.

 

****

 

A bitter gust of wind danced across Draco’s skin as he stood outside Benedict’s home in London. He wasn’t sure exactly why he had come; he knew that the evening was going to end with another row. He felt his resolve waning, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that shouted insistently for him to leave. He took a step forward and knocked on the door gently. It was earlier than Benedict had dictated that he arrive, and Draco found himself swallowing his vexation, replacing it with a sense of freedom within his new limits. He had other responsibilities now, and they didn’t include Benedict, and never would again.

Knowing that the news he was about to deliver wouldn’t be well accepted, Draco took a deep breath as the door opened, and an old house-elf looked at him with apparent irritation. After his admittance, Draco took a seat on one of the opulent sofas arranged in his lover’s sitting room, contemplating the last two years with contempt. Benedict’s assumption that he had been the sole reason for Draco’s position in St Mungo’s rankled, and Draco reckoned that his own merits had been completely lost on his vapid lover.

“Hello, Draco. You’re early. To what do I owe such an honour?” Benedict’s voice was cool as he spoke, his face revealing none of the indignation that Draco was certain he felt. Soft lips pressed against Draco’s temple as the brunet entered the room and sat across from him. 

“I won’t be able to see you for some time—” Draco began, his words interrupted immediately by Benedict’s honeyed voice. 

“Oh, don’t tell me this is about me going through your things,” Benedict cooed, a sly grin warping his features.

“No, it isn’t,” Draco asserted, remembering who he was speaking with; Benedict was the kind of man that held no regard for anything but himself, and that revelation should have kept Draco from losing himself in the newly identified repulsion he felt for the man, but it didn’t. His stomach turned at the brutal reality, sickened with himself for ever allowing another selfish bastard to try and control his life. 

“So, what?” Benedict rose and sat next to Draco, his lithe body moving like grass ruffled by the wind, placing his hand in the blond’s thigh, rubbing it suggestively. “You look a bit stressed. Why don’t you let me help you?” Willowy fingers stopped at the apex of Draco’s groin, rubbing expectantly. Fingers that once had been welcome now caused Draco’s stomach to roil, the perfectly manicured nails feeling like glass scraping against his covered flesh. He tensed as other’s hand varied its pressure, thankful that he felt nothing but scorn for the man beside him. He had been weak in the past, but no more. 

“There has been a change in the arrangements between myself and my patient,” Draco began, pushing Benedict’s hand away. The smouldering flames within Benedict’s eyes flared at the rejection. Their gazes locked, and Draco refused to cower under the weight of the other wizard’s expression. “I will need to provide full-time care for him. His condition is worse than I had anticipated. He requires around the clock treatment.” Benedict’s lips pursed, the irritation blazing in his eyes, but Draco didn’t let that deter him from finishing what he had come to say. “I won’t have time for a relationship with my new responsibilities; I’m sure you understand.” Draco tried to intone his words apologetically, but the truth was that he wasn’t sorry, and he hid behind his mask of indifference, expecting the worst.

A pregnant silence filled the air, suffocating Draco, as he watched Benedict’s face twist angrily. “We’ve been together almost two years, Draco. Two years,” he said through tightly clenched teeth. “What about me? Do you ever think about me? After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?”

“I had a choice to make. It’s best if I don’t have any distractions while I’m treating him. His case is complicated, and I can’t afford to—”

“Yes, have distractions,” Benedict interrupted with a sneer, his words dripping disdain. “You said that already. So tell me, when did you make this decision?”

“That doesn’t matter. I didn’t have time to weigh the life of one person against my own… desires.” Draco refused to look down. Regardless of the vitriol that laced his lover’s soft features, he knew that Benedict was waiting, watching for any signs of weakness. That’s how he handled rejection; throwing a fit was easier than accepting the reality of any given situation. 

“And what about after?” Benedict stood, pacing the sitting room, his face contorting as the anger grew. To Draco, he looked like a lion stalking its prey, ready to strike at any moment. Benedict’s temper was unpredictable when goaded, and after many occasions of refusing to be paraded about like some prize, Draco had seen similar reactions, falling victim to the other wizard’s inability to understand that there was more to a relationship than his wants. 

“I anticipate this taking at least six months, maybe more. I don’t think you should wait for me. Enjoy your life. I’m sure if the situation was reversed you would do the same.”

“What about what I want? I’ve spent nearly two years trying to help you find your place, and this is how you repay me?”

“I didn’t exactly plan things this way,” Draco said, trying to placate the self-centred man. Benedict stopped and looked at Draco, his deep brown eyes still raging. 

“J'en ai rien à branler,” he spat. “Are you so selfish that you didn’t even think to talk to me first?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mais putain, tu sais très bien de quoi je parle!” Benedict shouted, looking around the room. In the past, Benedict had always reverted to French when he was angry, toying with Draco, insulting him. 

“I’m not going to apologise for doing my job. Would you honestly wait six months? A year? Two years?”

“How can you know it will take that long?” Benedict queried. 

“I’m leaving tonight. The sooner I figure out what’s wrong with him, the sooner I can get home. This isn’t for fun! Potter is an egotistical git, a _Golden Boy_ that everyone praises. I am hardly looking forward to spending all of my time in his home, Benedict.”

“Then don’t do it,” Benedict stated. “It’s simple, really. Just tell Potter you can’t do it. End of story. Then there is no need for this nonsense.”

“There’s no one else to do it. The _experts_ nearly killed him with their feckless attempts,” Draco said with a scoff. Assuming that Benedict’s appeal was merely for convenience, Draco ignored it. “Once this is all over, maybe we can pick things back up. But right now it isn’t possible to continue with a relationship.”

Benedict looked at Draco for a long moment, his fingers drumming on his hip. It’s as though Draco could see the grin in Benedict’s eyes; they way they lit up with malice sent a shiver down his spine, and he waited for the sickly sweet words to drip from the wizard’s lips. “I’m not waiting for you, so you have a choice to make,” Benedict challenged. “It’s him or me. There are plenty of other wizards who would not take my company for granted.”

“Him,” Draco stated simply, eyeing Benedict coldly. He stood, straightening his robes with as much poise as his tense limbs would allow and prepared to leave without looking back.

“Espèce de salaud!” 

_Fucking bastard?_ Draco thought. _How am I the bastard when I’m trying to save someone’s life?_

“I’m going. I’m not going to listen to this piffle,” Draco riposted acerbically. Benedict had resumed his pacing, continuing to hurl invectives at Draco. When it dawned on the other wizard that Draco was leaving, Benedict stopped and looked at him, his features deflating slightly.

“It’s just an obsession! How can you leave me for _him_?” Benedict had become an expert at presenting the face that he thought would wilt Draco’s resolve. Lucky for him, Draco had learnt a long time ago that falling for his lover’s ruse was more harmful than good, and he ignored the contrived expression without a second thought. “You hate him, so why are you helping him?” 

Yelling in response was only going to cause their dispute to escalate, so Draco took a breath and spoke softly, “It’s my job, Benedict. I’m not _leaving_ you for him. This is work. It’s not like I’m going to shag the great Harry Potter.”

“Bâtard égoïste!” Benedict growled, slamming his fists into the wall; the _thud_ was like a muted gunshot, and Draco watched, his anger flaring to life.

“Oh, I’m the selfish bastard? What about you? You’ve never once considered how I felt about your intrusions into my home at all hours of the day, waking me right after I had left St Mungo’s. Va te faire foutre!”

“Branleur,” Benedict growled. “Leave! Just get out! T'aurais du etre condamné à Azkaban comme ton père.”

 _I belong in Azkaban with my father?_ Draco was nothing like his father. The notion that he and Lucius were even remotely similar was enough to make Draco ill. Even when he had taken the Mark, it had been to save his mother, not because he had _wanted_ it.

“Foutre le camp! I won’t be back. It’s over, Benedict,” Draco replied, walking to the door. He knew this had been a bad idea. He should have seen this happening. It wasn’t as though Benedict wasn’t predictable enough; the man oozed selfishness from every pore, his lips stained with the bitter taste of malcontent.

As Draco reached the door, Benedict continued shouting vituperations, but Draco was able to ignore most of it until he heard Benedict intone bitterly, “Honte de la chair et du sang de ta famille. Tu n'as aucun compétence comme guérisseur.” 

“If you had tried to be a better man about this, I might have found a way around it, but now I’m glad things happened this way. I don’t want to see you any more, and you and I both know there was nothing _real_ about our relationship. You only care about yourself.” Draco shook his head angrily and slammed the door, leaving behind one of his many mistakes; the thunderous _bang_ of the heavy barrier reverberated like repeatedly plucked guitar strings, and Draco Disapparated to his home to gather some things he would need, including Potter’s medical records. 

He landed in the foyer of his home, tossing his robe on the floor, heading for his office. He needed a drink, anything to take the edge away. Benedict had gone too far this time, and he was glad it was over. He made his way to the study and clutched a crystalline glass, quickly pouring a large serving of Firewhisky. He gulped it down, his oesophagus burning as the liquid settled in his stomach. He poured another generous helping and went to his desk, gathering all of Potter’s records, his Quick-Quotes Quills, parchment, and any texts he thought might be helpful. After he had gathered everything, he retrieved a case to store his Healer’s kit, locked it, and headed to his bedroom to gather some clothing. 

Once Draco had packed everything, he concentrated on Hale Close and the squeezed-through-straw feeling replaced his stability as he spun toward Ropley. Before leaving, Draco had applied a Featherweight Charm and an Undetectable Extension Charm to his valise for ease of transport, thankful that the magic worked in tandem rather than opposition. 

It was cold, but he had thought ahead and worn a lined cloak over his robes. He kept a steady pace down Church Street until he saw the wrought iron fence of Potter’s house bloom into existence. He stepped through the creaking gate and made his way to the door, stopping to knock. He didn’t wait long for the door to open and Granger’s worry-stricken face to greet him with a faint smile. 

Draco inhaled deeply, ready to retire, anything to get away from the evening’s events. He ascended the stairs without speaking and closed the bedroom door when he reached it. He looked around the large room: the lamps lining the walls were casting a tender glow along the floor and bed. There were places on the walls were hangings once used to reside, but either by demand or necessity had been removed. Draco wondered if it had anything to do with Potter’s request that the house-elf remove any items that belonged to Weasley’s sister. Placing his bags on the bed, he began to unpack his things, arranging them in the appropriate places.

As he spread the tangible pieces of his life out, Draco began to feel like he was forgetting something. He shrugged, continuing to arrange his personal items in his temporary bedroom, thinking that it wasn’t as bad as it could be. Even if the faint hint of lavender assaulted his senses, he was able to ignore it, wondering why Potter and Weasley’s little sister had ended their relationship. He smirked when he realised he could ask Potter that as part of his initial treatment evaluation; he knew already that they had ended their nearly five year relationship – not why, though - but he couldn’t help wanting to ask. He wanted to hear from Potter why he and his fiancée were no longer together. 

When Draco got to his Healer’s kit, it occurred to him what he’d forgotten: he hadn’t re-wrapped Potter’s ribs earlier. He exhaled heavily and gathered the materials he would need and headed downstairs. Draco hadn’t observed his surroundings the way he normally would earlier – he knew he’d be back – so he descended to the sitting room slowly, looking at the various photos along the stairwell. Many of the photos were of people he didn’t recognise, but by the looks of them, the man and woman were Potter’s parents. There were others, like Sirius Black, that he recognised, but he didn’t pay much attention to them. He wasn’t there to get to know Potter; he only had one goal: treat the git and start his life again. 

Draco arrived on the ground floor, and he saw Granger still sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked under her as she read a large book. She looked up, but didn’t speak, and Draco continued to Potter’s bedroom. He knocked on the door, speaking clearly, “I need to wrap your ribs, Potter. I’m coming in.”

He pushed the door open and heard Potter grunting in the darkness. He looked around, the shadows swallowing the hollow space, and Potter lay on the bed on his back, a red pyjama top embracing his broad chest. 

“Sit up and remove your shirt,” Draco stated calmly. He was still a little shaken by his row with Benedict, but Potter didn’t need to know that. 

“Do you know how to say please?” Potter snapped in response. 

Even in the darkness, Draco could see the depth of Potter’s jewel-like eyes flashing. He wouldn’t kid himself that seeing that look didn’t make him react, though. The look was familiar, in unfamiliar territory, and it made him slightly more comfortable with the situation. Knowing that Potter hadn’t changed was enough to make him appreciate the ire – it was real, not contrived or practised like many of Benedict’s responses – for its truth. Potter had always been that way, though. He’s always shown exactly what he was feeling or thinking on his face; he was a true Gryffindor. 

“Yes,” Draco replied simply, moving to the side of the bed. 

“Do you talk to all of your patients this way?” Potter demanded, his voice cracking slightly. 

“Yes. I’m not some shoulder for people to cry on, Potter. I’m a Healer. I do my job, and that’s it.” Potter stared at him for a moment, shaking his head. Draco turned and waved his wand, the lights flaring to life. He turned around to see Potter worry his bottom lip between his teeth again, and Draco found himself distracted and irritated that the tic got to him so easily. “I see no reason to offer benevolence to people that make unwise decisions. Most of my patients came to St Mungo’s because of their own folly. I hardly think that entitles them to my sympathy, now get your shirt off so I can get some rest.”

Draco watched Potter’s face twist as though he disagreed, but he didn’t reply. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks; Draco had to admit that he liked getting under Potter’s skin. It was easy. 

“Can we just get this over with?” Potter said impatiently, folding his arms.

Draco tried to push the waspish voice in his mind away, reminding himself that he would be the better man. He’d grown up enough not to plummet into petty pitfalls and traps – he wouldn’t give Potter the satisfaction of rousing his anger. Though he supposed he should be thankful to the git. In his own circuitous way, Potter had given Draco the excuse he needed to end his relationship with Benedict. He knew it had been a poorly convenient reason, but it served Draco nonetheless, and he wasn’t one to ignore an opportunity such as this. If he had chosen to stay with Benedict, he would eventually be driven to distraction as he had been on numerous occasions because the insipid wizard couldn’t see suffering if it landed in his lap. No, staying with Benedict would have ruined him eventually, the stress and damn near impossible expectation of attention and affection would have made Draco careless, and that wasn’t an option. The problem was the Benedict wouldn’t accept that he was in the wrong. It was all a game to him, a way to manipulate people, and Draco had grown tired of it. 

“Unfold your arms.”

Potter huffed in response, but did as Draco had asked. _It’s about time,_ he thought. He eyed the contusion in the middle of Potter’s chest, noting its size and colour so he could track its progress as well. The ribs would be harder, Draco would have to touch Potter more, and he didn’t want that.

He quickly wrapped Potter’s ribs, careful not to the touch the too hot skin, or look at the brunet’s face. The nagging sense of discomfort he had felt earlier lingered the more he touched or looked at Potter, and Draco didn’t like it. He had never felt anything like this with any other patient and shrugged it off in favour of telling himself that it was the bad blood between them. Heated exchanges riddled their history, and to Draco, that was the only logical answer to his unease around the other man. He’d touched hundreds of people, healed countless patients, but never one that he had known personally, and he hoped that was the difference.

Potter jerked away from Draco’s touch as soon as he had positioned the last of the bandage around his sternum. Draco took a step back and watched as Potter quickly dressed, his face nearly the same colour as his cherry-red lips. Draco found it amusing that Potter could be so bashful. Again, Draco wondered if it was him, though, and not that Potter was embarrassed by his body.

“I need to check your vital signs. Lie down and don’t move,” Draco said, fumbling through his bag for the Muggle-like instruments that had been adapted specifically for patients in Spell Damage. Due to the typically unpredictable, and often disastrous, nature of using magic on witches and wizards who had been cursed, the Healers had all come together to improve Muggle instruments that didn’t require magic to operate. The rustle of the sheets alerted Draco to Potter’s reclined position, and he set to work, mentally noting Potter’s heart rate, and blood pressure. 

“Until I figure out what’s wrong with you, I will have to assist you with stretching twice a day in order to maintain your joint flexibility and range of motion,” Draco stated impassively. “The morning and the evening should suffice. We’ll start tomorrow. It will also be prudent to alter your diet in case something you’re eating is the cause of all of this.” Potter didn’t respond, but then again, Draco hadn’t expected him to; manners and common decency were above _heroes_.

Thankful that he was done for the evening, Draco packed his things and left without a word. In the quiet of his room, he scribbled down the results, and allowed himself a moment of peace – thinking about nothing other than the beat of his own heart – before falling asleep. 

To be continued…

 

French Translations:  
Foutre le camp – Fuck off!  
Honte de la chair et du sang de ta famille. – Shame of your blood and family?  
Tu n'as aucun compétence comme guérisseur. – You’re an incompetent Healer.  
Branleur – Wanker!  
T'aurais du etre condamné à Azkaban comme ton père. – You should have gone to Azkaban with your father.  
Bâtard égoïste. – Selfish bastard.  
Mais putain, tu sais très bien de quoi je parle! – You know fucking well what I mean.  
Espèce de salaud. – Fucking bastard!  
J'en ai rien à branler. – I don’t give a shit.  
Va te faire foutre – Fuck you.


	8. Chapter 7

Harry lay in bed, his head pounding heavily in the darkness of an unfamiliar bedroom. The moon’s light filtering through the window angled across the floor differently, the bed wasn’t as soft, and it didn’t smell like lavender and vanilla. A faint spicy aroma hovered in the air, somewhat bitter, acrid. The lingering scent of the potion he had used in his bath made him cringe. Cloudy eyes scanned the soulless room as the realisation of why he was downstairs struck. The faded memories of earlier in the day came flooding back, and Harry sat up, wincing at the pain in his chest and side. There was a large bandage covering his upper body, and a tenderness in the centre that made him gasp as the material tightened against him. Harry had no idea how long he had been asleep. After Malfoy had strapped his ribs, he had fallen into slumber again, overtaken by an all-too-familiar weariness.

The knowledge that his life was falling apart settled over Harry with the most imposing thickness he’d ever felt; it was as if his being were suffused with the quagmire of a Portable Swamp, his mind muddy with the density of confusion, anger, and hurt. He tried to shift, the weight of his legs seeming unnatural and disorienting as he bent over, trying to push his uncooperative limbs beyond their ability. He finally gave up on finding comfort, his thoughts centring bitterly on the new circumstances he found himself forced to accept. 

This wasn’t how things were supposed to be; his life had been supposed to get better, not worse, but it had continued to spiral out of his control until it had whirled out of his hands and directly into those of Draco Malfoy. Harry wondered that fate could honestly be so cruel. He’d spent seven years trying to build his life, piece after piece seemingly falling into place as if guided by kindly omnipotent hands, until this. If he had not known that Voldemort were well and truly dead beyond even the slenderest shadow of a hope of resurrection, he would have hurled himself unhesitatingly headlong to the conclusion that his present sufferings were somehow his fault. He couldn’t think of anybody else powerful enough to fuck him up so badly and twisted enough to make Draco Malfoy – Draco Malfoy, of all people! - his only apparent hope. He stopped that train of thought short. He hadn’t spared Malfoy so much as a minute’s thought since… He stopped himself again. He didn’t want to think about it. 

Harry tried to shove thoughts of the past away, craving the comfort of oblivion. Drifting in that soft place between asleep and awake, removed from reality but not quite deep enough to be in the grip of nightmare, he felt almost normal, and he forced himself to stop thinking until finally his mind calmed enough to allow peace to take him.

Morning came far sooner than his weary mind desired. As the sunlight streamed across the floor, Harry found himself hoping that Malfoy would have forgotten about the stretching and would leave him to stew in self-pity. The days had all seemed to merge into one extended nightmare, and he just wanted to be left to his own devices, healthy or not. His hope was short-lived, though. Persistent knocking drew his attention, and he reluctantly gave his permission for entry. 

“How did you sleep?” Malfoy asked. There was no friendliness in his words; only the practiced civility of a man who had asked the same question countless times of countless patients. He was speaking as a Healer, not as a person, and that irritated Harry as much in Malfoy as it did in any other Healer. He couldn’t understand how another human could be so cold. But this was Malfoy, so Harry was for once grateful for the clinical tone as well as annoyed by it.

“Fine,” he replied shortly, refusing to look at the other wizard. He didn’t want to see the impeccably groomed hair, or the way the severe black robes hung perfectly from the tall, healthy frame. Malfoy’s flawless presentation was like a slap in the face, reminding him what he had lost with the exacerbation of his illness. 

“Any pain or discomfort?” the blond asked, demanding Harry’s attention. He looked, and shook his head, telling himself that he would use too much energy if he allowed himself to bicker with Malfoy. In response, Malfoy gave a curt nod. “Let me check your status, and then we can begin your stretches.” 

Everything moved at a wearing slow pace as Harry allowed Malfoy to guide his legs through the movements. He felt the wizard’s cool hands as they rested against his skin, twisting and turning his ankles, flexing his toes and bending his knees. He was turned onto each side, feeling ridiculously uncomfortable as Malfoy stretched his hips, his hands resting in places that only Ginny had ever touched him before. He felt nothing apart from the discomfort, though. His body was no longer his to control and that was frightening: he had no phoenix tears to neutralise the poison this time…

Not speaking served Harry a little better than talking would have, since conversation would have deteriorated rapidly to bickering and Harry would have had to deal with Malfoy’s regrettably well-honed sharp tongue, and the physiotherapy passed relatively equably. 

“Sit up in the bed comfortably. I need to take some blood.” Harry was shocked that Malfoy would resort to Muggle medical practices, but he didn’t question it in favour of saving his limited energy and preserving the not unpleasant quiet. Malfoy brought a small kit to the bedside, and placed it on the table. Harry rolled up his sleeve to expose the crook of his elbow, and Malfoy secured the tourniquet around his upper arm, waiting impatiently for a vein to surface; eventually, he tapped Harry’s arm a few times, urging one of the tiny blue lines to rise. A small cold and surprisingly hard pad ran across his skin, and the odour of alcohol burned his nostrils; it didn’t take long to sterilise the site, and then the hypodermic needle pierced his skin, allowing his blood to flow into the small vial like thick vintage claret. 

“Go eat,” Malfoy said when he had finished and was carefully wrapping the vial in a soft cloth. “There are a few things I need to do, and then I need to ask you some questions." 

“All right,” Harry replied, watching as Malfoy left the room. When he was content that he was alone, he began shifting, bending his uncooperative legs until he felt his feet touch the soft carpet. He reached for the chair, positioning it for ease of transfer into it from the bed, and looked around; Malfoy passed by the bedroom door at that moment, casting a surreptitious glance at Harry as he anchored himself and stood on shaky legs, cursing the maladroitness that accompanied his illness. Using his arms to hold himself in place, he turned enough to drop inelegantly into the chair. Without proper control of his leg muscles, it was hard to do anything with the precision that he had grown accustomed to over the years. He felt incredibly clumsy, fighting his body as if it were a literal rather than a figurative battle. His arms were shaky, but he was able to remove the stops on the chair’s wheels and began the tedious task of manoeuvring it through the narrow doorway.   
~*~*~*~

 

Harry sat in his bedroom brooding, cursing Hermione for leaving him alone with Malfoy. He’d lost track of time the moment he’d locked the door, hiding from the simmering humiliation he felt. At least Hermione hadn’t been around when Malfoy had decided that they should “talk”. A few hours must have passed since then, though, because Hermione’s voice had begun to call to him from the opposite side of the door, pleading for him to join them for supper, and Malfoy’s interrogation had begun just after lunch. Harry had no desire to join them; they’d just tell him what he couldn’t eat again, and he was tired of being directed as though he were too reckless or stupid to care for himself. He’d only called Kreacher for a cup of tea! Malfoy had quickly and unceremoniously quashed that idea, though. “If it’s prepared magically, it could kill you. Think, Potter!” Malfoy had snapped, apparently oblivious to the irritation ripping through Harry like a Cruciatus. “You of all people must know how to make it for yourself,” Malfoy had added, with a dismissive air that was at odds with the strangely penetrating look he had shot at Harry, and which had in combination annoyed him more than either the look or the dismissal would have alone.

“I can’t reach everything,” Harry had ground out, willing the sparking embers of his temper back to a slow smoulder. Malfoy, he was mildly disgusted to find, still sent him up in wrathful flames as no other ever had. 

“Your house-elf can gather the necessary ingredients, Potter. He just can’t actually brew it. Now, if you don’t mind, I need some information from you, and I’d like to get this over with.” 

Harry would have preferred some sort of physical comfort during their chat, something to keep him occupied, but Malfoy had had other plans for him. As if making him feel ignorant about why it was inappropriate to have Kreacher make tea hadn’t been enough, Malfoy had further upset Harry’s precarious equanimity when he had begun the interrogation. 

Malfoy had wanted to know things that had made Harry want to curl up and die from mortification, or cause Malfoy to die from a slow and painful death – either one would have been acceptable to Harry.

“Have you experienced any sexual dysfunction? Premature ejaculation?” Malfoy had asked, much to Harry’s chagrin. His face had burned hot with the insinuation that he lacked the ability to control himself, like some rabid adolescent. “That’s coming too soon, Potter,” Malfoy had explained dryly when Harry had remained silent, concentrating on controlling the urge to scrag the git for his nerve. His awkward answers obviously hadn’t fazed the other wizard in the least, to Harry’s increased discomfiture, because he had continued his questioning with a kind of clinical disinterest that Harry had found unbearably offensive. “Inability to get or sustain an erection? That’s—” 

Harry had cut him off before he could continue. “Enough! I’m not a complete fuckwit, Malfoy.”

Malfoy had nodded briefly, murmuring to the Quick-Quotes Quill scribbling madly on the parchment. The other wizard had cleared his throat briefly as the enchanted implement had paused and had looked at Harry inscrutably. “Stand up and walk across the room.”

Harry would have loved to have proved that he could still manage on his own, but the morning’s experience of his uncooperative limbs had made admitting that he couldn’t an inevitable reality, though he had, somewhere deep inside, hoped not to have had to let Malfoy see the true extent of his debility. If it had remained unspoken, a little voice in the back of his head had murmured, it wouldn’t have been real, not really real. Malfoy’s demand had destroyed any chance he might have had at preserving even that tiny shred of dignified pretence, though. He had sighed heavily, and had finally admitted it, more to himself than Malfoy. “I can’t.” 

He had hoped, then, that the other wizard would have heard enough and not asked any further questions. He had had enough of answering questions for the day.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” Malfoy had said. 

Harry’s temper had flared. “I said I can’t. Happy?” he had snapped, folding his arms and hissing at the stabs of pain the movement had caused to spear through his torso.

Malfoy had regarded him expressionlessly for a long moment before speaking further, and finally addressed him with an air of maddening patience, as if explaining something to a fractious child. “Contrary to what you may believe, Potter, I’m not here to humiliate you. You stated yesterday that you were perfectly able to walk, and I therefore needed to confirm whether that meant impaired mobility or a normal gait. If, as you now say, you can’t, however…”

Harry had had enough. Deciding that Malfoy was intent on witnessing his inability to walk, he had applied the stops on the chair and had lifted himself into a standing position, his legs trembling. He had kept one hand resting on the arm of the chair and had taken one step forward. His knees had barely bent as he had attempted to move further. 

He had realised as soon as he had let go of the arm-rests that the weight of his body had become too much for his legs to support. Once again, he had found himself forced uncomfortably close to Malfoy as the Healer had closed the distance between them as though he were fighting for the Snitch in a Quidditch match. Harry hadn’t even known he was falling, but the tight grip that had held him had told him otherwise. The fact that Malfoy could read his body better than he could had been unsettling, and he had cursed the git as though it had been his fault somehow.

“Potter, you do realise that there are other methods of testing your lower limb functionality? If you had just sat still for a moment and listened, I would have explained that,” he had said, lowering Harry back into the chair. “You may have been Sorted into Gryffindor at school, but that doesn’t mean you have to continue to typify the House’s worst attributes seven years after leaving the place.”

“Get out,” Harry had growled as he had settled into the chair. Malfoy had raised a pale eyebrow in response, but had stood, smoothing the front of his robes. He had tapped the parchment with his wand, bowed mockingly, and swept from the room, leaving Harry to fulminate.

The bedroom door had closed with a heavy thud, and Harry had sat looking at his hands for what had felt like ages. His mind had been heavy with thoughts, angry and selfish contemplations which would have led to a slanging match reminiscent of their time at Hogwarts if he had voiced them to Malfoy. 

“Harry!” Hermione called again, disturbing his reverie. “Would you please open the door? Supper’s ready.”

“Fuck off! I’m not hungry,” he snarled, his anger surging again. This was all Hermione’s fault. Harry wouldn’t be stuck with Malfoy and his stupid, intrusive questions if Hermione had practised a little more of the common sense she had so readily employed during their days at Hogwarts. No, Harry would wait. Even if he was hungry enough to eat a bloody Hippogriff, he wouldn’t leave his room and give either of them the satisfaction of seeing him cave. He was strong; he could deal with this. 

The fact that the sun was blanketing itself with the stars, waving sleepily to the moon as they passed one another, didn’t matter to Harry. He sat fuming over the last few days as though being angry would make his present circumstances easier to swallow. The dull thud against the wooden door had finally ceased, and Harry tried to ignore the slight cramps that twisted his insides.

Harry decided that he would climb back into bed and wait out the night, regardless of how hungry he was. He would be fine in a few days, he was sure of it, and there would be no need for Malfoy to be there. When he could walk again, Malfoy would be a lingering memory from a bad dream, and his life would be back to normal – Ginny would come home, having really never had an affair with Neville, they would get married as planned, Ron would laugh about the stupid misunderstanding, whatever it had really been about, and moving on with his career would be a reality. 

Harry wheeled himself to the bed, intending to hide between the sheets until dawn came again. The tightening in his stomach made him wonder whether he actually could wait out the night, though. 

Inspiration struck, and Harry began to rummage through the drawer of the bedside table, on the off chance that it contained the end of a stash of sweets left over from George’s visit a few weeks back. Unidentified things rattled and rustled dimly, then finally the familiar crunch of waxed paper met Harry’s ears, and the hunger pangs tickled him painfully as his stomach rumbled at the thought of sustenance, however insubstantial. 

Unable to see the actual content of the wrapping in the darkness, Harry eased the crinkling packet from the depth of the drawer and tore it open. The knocking began on the door again, but this time it was Malfoy. His irritatingly clinical tone grated on Harry’s nerves. “I said fuck off! I don’t want to eat.”

“Potter, open the door, or I’m opening it for you.”

Harry scowled, ignoring Malfoy’s threat, fingering the little sweet in his hand, and hoping that it would give him more than a roiling stomach. Harry’s mouth watered in anticipation, and the door burst open, Malfoy standing on the threshold. The lights flared to life, making Harry squint against the sudden brightness. “I said fuck off!” How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want to eat with you – least of all something you prepared? Bugger off,” Harry snapped. He raised his hand to his mouth, dropping the sweet into his mouth, and savoured the peppery flavour as it slid over his tongue. Malfoy’s face twisted in horror, and Harry could only stare at him for a moment, nonplussed by the expression on the other wizard’s face. Malfoy looked terrified, and Harry saw it clearly in his silvery eyes when the flames shot from his lips, reflecting his own expression like a mirror.

To be continued…


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 9: Knowing the Difference Between Living and Dying

 

Harry’s jaw dropped in disbelief, and Malfoy was across the intervening distance, only a few paces, in less than a heartbeat, gripping Harry’s jaw with one hand, and clawing the sticky, melting sweet out of his mouth with the other. He nearly gagged as Malfoy’s long fingers scrabbled inside his mouth as though he were a Crup trying to wolf something noxious it had retrieved from the bin before its owner intervened, choked on the intrusion, and wished somewhere in the distant, calm part of his mind that he were someone else. 

Even though the Pepper Imp had only been in his mouth for a handful of seconds, not even long enough to get a proper flame out, his head had begun to throb blindingly before he could even start to process his utter disbelief at Malfoy’s reaction; he knew then without doubt that Malfoy wasn’t just there for amusement. Whatever was wrong with him was serious, and the shaken expression on Malfoy’s ashen face as he stood there with the gooey mess still clutched in trembling fingers, coupled with the naked terror in Hermione’s saucer-wide eyes, told Harry everything he had kept himself from realising sooner. He’d been reckless, and he was sorry. Truly sorry. The foul taste of bile rose in his throat as he doubled over, feeling for all the world as if his heart were going to stop, it fluttered so irregularly in his chest, and his vision darkened, flickering dizzyingly in and out of focus. He vaguely registered Malfoy Summoning a bag and pushing him into a sitting position; after that, he just let his eyes close, listening to his own heartbeat, willing it to continue. 

“Potter, can you hear me?” For once, Malfoy’s voice didn’t drip boredom; there was real concern in his tone as Harry felt the Healer lift his body and lay him on the mattress. The firm grip of calloused fingers straightened his legs for comfort and Malfoy asked again, his voice firm and clear, “Can you hear me?” 

Harry nodded. He opened his eyes, but the harsh brightness of the room made him force them shut again quickly, the pain ebbing as soon as the dimness descended. The twisting in his stomach grew as he lay motionless, blinking slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the glare, and he stared at the ceiling. Malfoy’s face swam into his foggy vision, and he blinked repeatedly, straining to focus. Failing, he settled for closing them for comfort.

“Of all the stupid, reckless, block-headed things to do! Are you trying to kill yourself, Harry?” He could hear the tears in Hermione’s voice as it broke with emotion. In a harrowing moment of clarity, Harry blinked again and found himself focussing on the blond’s strained countenance.

He needed Malfoy, and the revelation was painful. The evidence before him was incontrovertible, and that realisation scared him more than the mystery of his condition. 

“Don’t you ever stop to think?” Hermione continued, her feet padding against the carpet. Harry tried to speak, but he was having trouble catching his breath.

“Easy, Potter. Take it slow,” Malfoy said. Harry felt calloused fingers against his throat, measuring the pace of his racing pulse. Everything seemed more alive around him as he reached for equilibrium, focussing on his body and the heavy awareness of his legs against the mattress. Harry felt more than saw Malfoy do something to his arm, and he didn’t struggle with the Healer as he worked. 

Hermione continued her rant even as Harry took slow, controlled breaths. 

Malfoy’s face entered Harry’s field of vision, and he noted that the Healer’s expression was at odds with the cool dismissal of his tone. Flashes of sympathy, concern, and frustration were evident to Harry, merely adding to his confusion about the other wizard’s motivations; this was not the Malfoy he remembered, even if he had tried to convince himself otherwise. The arch of the blond’s pale brows lowered as he seemed to regain his composure, his voice breaking through the din of Hermione’s castigation, demanding and receiving silence.

“Granger, while I absolutely agree with you, I believe that my patient has endured enough trauma for one evening,” he drawled, straightening. “Please do feel free to continue when he’s more rested, though. It may do him some good.” 

Hermione rushed forward when Malfoy began to move away, hugging him tightly, much to his very evident discomfiture. Malfoy raised a hand and patted Hermione stiffly on the back. “There, there, Granger,” he said, obviously uneasy in his unfamiliar role as comforter. “You haven’t done him any more damage than he’s already tried to do to himself. I know you didn’t mean it. I imagine he does, too.”

Harry looked on and began to stammer, making an apology seeming more important than getting his breathing to settle down. “H-Hermione, I-I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out quickly, and he wondered briefly if she actually understood him. Shame for his recklessness coloured his cheeks, and he reluctantly began another long-overdue apology. “Malfoy, I—” He stopped, unsure whether he should continue, the expression on the blond’s face unhelpfully unfathomable. “I’m sorry.”

Malfoy offered a curt nod in response, and Harry knew that was the only acknowledgement he was going to get. He was, oddly, content with that: he didn’t deserve sentiment, and nor did he want it. He definitely didn’t want Malfoy’s pity, either. Harry settled against the bedding, closing his eyes and enjoying the quiet. 

Harry had grown accustomed to the inevitable disruption of whatever peace he was able to find, however, so when a familiar voice boomed into the room, he merely looked up to observe Ron’s face contorting in confusion. 

“Bloody hell! What’s going on here?” Ron demanded, his face twisting in incredulity. A faint red flush had already begun at his neck, and it was steadily working up to his ears as Hermione looked up in surprise, wiping her tears. “’Mione? What’s wrong?”

Without missing a beat, Malfoy pushed Hermione from his reluctant embrace to Ron’s welcoming arms. “Here, Weasley. She’s your wife; you console her. I’m going to change.”

It was evident that Malfoy’s dignity had been slightly ruffled by Hermione’s emotional outburst. He began to sweep from the room, pushing past Ron in the narrow doorway, but Hermione held out a hand to stop him. “Th-thank you, Malfoy.”

The Healer nodded again curtly, and quickly departed, leaving Ron, Harry, and Hermione alone.

“What did he do to you? Why are you crying?” Ron demanded, curling his arms protectively around his wife. 

“I’m fine. He didn’t do anything,” Hermione replied, wiping away her tears. Harry was uncomfortable watching them together, so he cleaned his spectacle lenses as his best mates passed soft whispers between them. 

Harry resumed his inspection of the ceiling until he heard Hermione speak. “I’m going to make some tea. Behave, Ronald, and don’t upset him.”

She placed a brief kiss on Ron’s cheek as she left, and Ron stood in the doorway, his hands in his trouser pockets and shoulders hunched almost to his ears. His face was still red, but his head was low, and he scuffed one foot along the floor in embarrassment. Harry looked at his friend, too tired to make any complaint about his presence. Only a few members of wizarding society had complete access to his home, and those people he counted as family were among them. 

The silence between them hung heavy until Ron finally spoke, his eyes fixed on his trainers. “I reckon you were right, mate. I’ve talked to Ginny, and I—” He stopped and looked at Harry, his blue eyes brimming with unspoken emotion. “You know if I’d known she was shagging Neville I’d have told you, right, mate?” 

Harry only nodded by way of response, having no inclination at all to upset the fragile civility between them. Remembering their last encounter was enough to make him reluctant to speak until Ron had finished what he had come to say. No matter what Malfoy had said the previous day, he had learned a measure of restraint since school, and didn’t let impetuosity rule him all the time. 

“She’s stopped seeing him now. It’s you she loves, it really is. You should see her, mate. She’s in little pieces on the floor. Mum can’t do anything with her. She was stupid, but she didn’t mean to hurt you. She just felt… you know, pushed out. Taken for granted. As if you weren’t making the effort for her you were making for the rest of the world. She just wanted to feel a bit special, you know?” Ron had removed his hands from his pockets and was waving them around as he spoke, attempting to emphasise his point with random gestures, finally smacking his legs in what Harry assumed was frustration. Harry nodded briefly, showing that he’d heard the wizard’s words rather than indicating agreement; he had his own thoughts on Ginny’s behaviour and was slightly irritated that Ron still felt the need to defend her even when he apparently knew that she’d been the one in the wrong. 

Ron began to pace the room, his words tumbling out quickly. “Now, I’m not criticising you; fuck all, mate, I don’t know enough about your relationship to do that, and I don’t want to know - I mean, Merlin’s beard, she’s my sister and you’re my best mate; I really don’t want to know – but, well, girls aren’t like us, are they? Just look at ’Mione. I don’t know what she’s on about half the time. But I know I love her, and I’d do anything to keep her.” Ron stopped and looked at Harry, his eyes pleading for some validation on Harry’s part. 

Harry nodded again. Where’s Hermione with the tea? he thought desperately.

“You… I mean, you’ve been ill for a long time, really, haven’t you? You haven’t looked right for ages. Maybe… maybe that’s been affecting the way you’ve been with Gin? I’m not… I’m not defending her shagging Nev – fuck knows I’m not defending him! Next time I see him, I’ll push his teeth down his throat! – but, you know, maybe you could try to see where she’s coming from? She loves you, mate. She really, really does…” 

Harry found himself rolling his eyes inwardly, but he nodded with Ron’s words anyway. It was easier to listen to him natter on about his sister than chance another explosion like the last one. 

Malfoy appeared in the doorway, propping himself against the wooden frame, his usual bored expression moulding his sharp features, and Harry was grateful for the interruption. “While I’m sure Potter appreciates your attempt at salvaging his relationship, Weasley,” the Healer drawled, “he’s in no condition to think about anything apart from not dying in the immediate future. If your sister ‘really, really does’ love him, she’ll accept that and let her wounded feelings wait until the strain of dealing with them won’t exhaust him to the brink of coma. By which time, I will no longer be around to be bored witless or nauseated to the point of vomiting by it all. Now, if you wouldn’t mind letting me see to my patient…? Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” 

Harry cast Malfoy a grateful look and watched as Ron shrugged his shoulders and screwed his face into an expression of distaste. “I’ll see you later, Harry,” Ron said. “Malfoy.”

They shared a curt nod, and Malfoy entered the room, his expression unchanging. “Merlin’s mother-in-law, Potter, if I had that to contend with, I’d try to top myself, too. Haven’t you ever considered just casting Obliviate on him on humanitarian grounds?” 

Harry smirked slightly, but showed no other sign of conviviality. Just because Malfoy had saved him from getting really wound up and probably doing something stupid, it didn’t make them friends, and it didn’t change who they were, or their pasts. 

The dizziness was beginning to fade, and Harry took a deep breath to centre himself; now that the after-effects of his episode were beginning to fade, the hunger pangs were returning stronger than before.

“I’ve noticed that you’re having trouble getting in and out of the bedroom, and you will need to get into the bathroom at some point, so I am going to make some modifications to the doorways. I’ve taken the liberty of procuring a bath lift for you, too. I would rather not have it exposed to large amounts of magic, obviously, just in case. I’d like you to leave the room while I modify the doorways. Granger is making tea in the kitchen, and you need to eat something. I’ve asked her to make some scrambled eggs on wholemeal toast for you.”

Harry pulled a face, showing his distaste for the selected fare, but Malfoy dismissed any real argument. “You haven’t eaten much in the last few days,” he said. “It may not be roast beef or Muggle takeaway, but it’s going to stick to your bones longer.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, moving his legs off the bed. He saw movement in his peripheral vision and stopped as Malfoy stepped directly into his proper line of sight.

“Would you like some assistance?” 

Harry sat in stunned silence, scrutinising the blond. The Malfoy Harry remembered from school would have been mocking him for weakness. Harry could scarcely believe that the usual ridicule hadn’t accompanied the offer of assistance. He nodded briefly, dragging himself to the edge of the bed. Malfoy lifted him from under the arms, their bodies pressing together as Harry tried to steady himself. Taking a clumsy step forward, Harry turned, settling into the comfortable chair with Malfoy’s help. The Healer stepped aside, reaching for his wand. “Thanks,” Harry said softly and leant forward slightly, the chair moving toward the bedroom door. He slowed as he approached the doorway and carefully manoeuvred through the entrance. 

The scent of cooking eggs was strong as he approached the kitchen; Ron was leaning against the worktop as Hermione cooked, talking steadily about a Quidditch match that had been played earlier in the week. Harry didn’t stop to talk; instead, he moved toward the dining room and stopped at the table to wait for the others to join him. He hadn’t wanted to interrupt Ron and Hermione’s chat; he knew that they hadn’t been able to spend a lot of time together lately, and that was something else to plague Harry with guilt. Yes, they were his best mates but monopolising Hermione’s time was unfair: she had her own life to lead. 

Harry plonked both of his elbows on the resized table and dropped his jaw onto his knuckles, thinking. Malfoy had not only thought ahead enough to purchase a lift for his bath and apparently lowered the height of the dining table, but he had also been perceptive enough to notice Harry’s difficulty manoeuvring between rooms. His appreciation of the man’s foresight was short-lived, though, because Harry knew that his situation was only temporary. When he could walk again, a bath lift and wider doorways wouldn’t matter. This’ll be over soon, Harry assured himself. His train of thought was then interrupted by Ron’s entrance into the dining room. He carried a tea service with rattling cups and placed it on the table, grumbling to himself.

“How long before we can use magic here?”

“I’ve no idea,” Harry replied, taking a cup of tea from the tray and beginning to stir its contents. 

Ron started to ask something else, but Hermione entered with a plate and placed it before Harry. He reluctantly began to eat as Ron and his wife took a seat at the table, their expressions worried.

Hermione opened her mouth, but Ron beat her to it, blurting, “This’ll make you laugh, mate: it made me bloody laugh.” He swallowed a noisy mouthful. “Guess what ’Mione walked in on when she went to make the tea?” 

Harry couldn’t imagine, and, considering the glint of happy malice in Ron’s eye, since it inevitably had to be to do with Malfoy and Harry really didn’t want to think what Hermione might have walked in on the blond doing in his kitchen, he wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to imagine. He cut a bite-sized portion of toast and forked it up as he raised his eyebrows at Ron in obedient inquiry nonetheless. The egg fell off the toast halfway to his mouth and landed with a soft squelch on his plate. It had always made Ginny laugh when that happened: she had always had something to say about the fact that the Boy Who Lived could slay Dark Lords and Basilisks, but was defeated by scrambled eggs every time, and the absence of some comment from her made his heart clench strangely, but he ignored it in favour of listening to Ron. 

“…swear down, mate! Actually, properly having a row with Kreacher!” Ron guffawed, and regarded Harry expectantly. 

Harry blinked.

“Malfoy was having a row with Kreacher?”

Ron seemed to take the question as evidence of incredulity rather than inattention, and Harry found himself relieved. 

“A proper screaming match!” He seemed immensely pleased by the fact. “‘You will obey me, you impertinent creature!’, ‘Draco Malfoy is not Kreacher’s Master!’, ‘I’m a wizard and a Black, you snivelling wretch!’, ‘Draco Malfoy is Kreacher’s Mistress’s blood, yes, but Kreacher is not obeying, no, not even if he wants to! Master Harry Potter is Kreacher’s Master, yes, he is, and Kreacher is not obeying any other wizard, no, not even the pure-blood Malfoy boy! And Kreacher is not ironing his fingers, either! Master Harry Potter is ordering Kreacher not to punish himself!’ Oh, shit, Harry, I wish I’d seen it!” 

Ron’s impersonations had not been terribly good: he couldn’t really capture Malfoy’s clipped yet drawling diction, and the creaky whine he had adopted bore no real resemblance to Kreacher’s rusty groan, but Harry couldn’t deny that there was a certain absurd humour in the idea of the confrontation, and he smiled almost despite himself. “Malfoy red in the face and spitting, and Kreacher glowering up at him like he used to glower at us…!” 

Harry chuckled at that. 

“It must have been priceless,” Ron was continuing, grinning widely. “Draco Malfoy defied by a little runt of a house-elf, and nothing he could do about it! He must’ve looked a complete plank. ’Mione said he threatened to bring an elf from the Manor if Kreacher couldn’t be trusted to look after you properly, and Kreacher nearly exploded. ‘If Draco Malfoy is bringing another house-elf in to Master Harry Potter’s house, Kreacher is killing that elf, yes, he is! No other elf is touching Master Harry Potter’s things! No other elf is taking care of Master Harry Potter!’ Merlin!” He shook his head, laughing again. “’Mione said it looked like Malfoy was going to try hexing Kreacher, or something, by the time she walked in.” 

Harry almost choked on his mouthful of recalcitrant egg. It had dropped off the square of toast three times, so he had abandoned that approach and shovelled it up with a fork. 

“Hex a house-elf?”

Ron took sheer disbelief as stunned hilarity and guffawed again. Harry could still see the absurdity of it, but there was a level on which it had suddenly and completely ceased to be remotely entertaining. He had already realised that his condition was serious and that Malfoy wasn’t mucking around, but the thought that the other wizard would go to the extreme of rowing with and threatening a house-elf was almost frightening. Almost. His eyes sought Hermione’s instinctively, and she gave a sort of nervous little half-smile. 

“What the hell did he want Kreacher to do?”

Hermione shook her head slightly. 

“It was to do with your food. You know he doesn’t want Kreacher to cook it, in case consuming something prepared by magic hurts you.” And that stung, somehow, though it probably shouldn’t have. He was sure that Hermione hadn’t intended it to, at least. She hurried on, “He doesn’t want you eating meals made with food grown by magic, either. He’s really not taking any chances,” she finished, weakly. 

“Totally neurotic, if you ask me,” Ron stated, reaching for his steaming mug. 

Harry flushed crimson, assailed by the too-close recollection of the events immediately before Ron’s arrival. Hermione coughed. 

“Maybe not, Ron.” The redhead’s eyes widened, and she nodded sombrely. 

“Harry ate - didn’t even eat, really - one Pepper Imp this evening. It nearly—” Her voice broke. 

“I nearly had another seizure,” Harry finished quietly. “I’d only just put it in my mouth. That’s why… that’s what ’Mione was so upset about.” 

Ron’s jaw dropped. 

“Bloody hell. There’s something really wrong with you, isn’t there?” 

Harry didn’t say anything. Hermione didn’t answer the question, either; she looked up at Harry, and said, “I think you should tell Kreacher to obey Malfoy.” 

Harry looked steadfastly at his plate. It’s only temporary. It’s not going to be for long. Kreacher doesn’t need to take orders from Malfoy; I’ll be fine soon… 

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice was low but insistent, and she reached out to place a hand on his wrist. “It’s just… It’d make things easier, that’s all. And… and I’d be happier, knowing if something happened here, while it’s just you and Kreacher and Malfoy, he could order Kreacher to do whatever needs to be done to help him help you and Kreacher wouldn’t argue. Please, Harry. For my peace of mind?” 

Harry tried to firm his resolve. He had always been a soft touch for big sad eyes and pleading, and he knew it, and Hermione knew it, and he knew Hermione knew it. Hermione probably knew he knew she knew it, too, but trying to follow that train of thought made his headache worse, so he cut another bite-sized piece of toast and scraped some egg onto it to distract himself. 

“It’s not really necessary,” he mumbled to his plate, scooping up his mouthful. 

“It’d make things easier,” Hermione repeated. “Think about it: if Malfoy does bring an elf from the Manor, or somewhere, how will Kreacher react? I mean, I don’t think he’d really kill it, but would you want to live with that sort of tension? Or let his feelings get hurt that way? And how much harder is it going to make things for Malfoy? Even if you don’t have another episode while I’m not here, or Ron’s not here, there are things he might need Kreacher to help him with, and if he has to come to you every time to get you to order Kreacher to follow a specific order…” she trailed off, and Harry glanced up in time to see her wrinkle her nose in the grimace she always made when faced with needless inefficiency. “He really doesn’t bother you unless he has to, you know.” 

That took Harry by surprise, but, now that it had been pointed out to him, he realised that she was right. As usual. Malfoy didn’t really bother him, except to check his pulse and temperature, and do his stretches, and get information from him. And force me to eat, and stop me accidentally killing myself… a treacherous little voice in the back of his head added. 

As Harry was turning it over in his mind, he sustained probably the biggest shock to his system since his unwelcome discovery of Ginny’s infidelity and the severity of his own condition.

“I think ’Mione’s right,” Ron said. “You should tell Kreacher to obey Malfoy.” 

Harry stared up to see a pained smile cross Ron’s face. The redhead shrugged. 

“’Mione trusts him,” he said, simply. “And even I can see you’re royally fucked, so…” The end of the sentence hung unspoken: if he’s the best chance you’ve got, don’t make the job any harder for him, mate.

There didn’t seem to be anything else for it. He placed his fork carefully on his plate and called for Kreacher even as he reminded himself that it wasn’t permanent, that it wouldn’t be for long, and that he was only doing it so Hermione could sleep at night in her own bed. 

The old house-elf appeared before him, head bowed. “How is Kreacher serving Master?”

I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. I must be mental. “Kreacher, look at me.” The creature’s eyes snapped up immediately, huge and wet and practically radiating devotion. Harry blinked. “Uh… I want you to obey Draco Malfoy while he’s here. Even if it sounds like he’s telling you to do something stupid, obey him like you’d obey me. He won’t be here long,” he added, wholly for his own benefit, because it was reassuring to hear it aloud, “but while he’s here, do as he says.” 

Kreacher bowed low and deferentially to Harry and actually thanked him before he disappeared. It was the same posture and inflection he’d used when Harry had given him the fake Horcrux locket that had belonged to Regulus, and Harry couldn’t help wondering just how hard it had been for Kreacher to refuse to obey Draco Malfoy’s orders. Malfoy was, Harry realised, probably about the last living person Kreacher would consider a relative of his beloved mistress and therefore automatically worthy of his respect and obedience. 

He turned back to the table and looked at Ron and Hermione almost questioningly. Hermione gave him a look that shone with something a bit like gratitude, and immediately prodded Ron into a long, rambling monologue about the latest changes in world class Quidditch regulations with one well-worded question. 

Harry won his battle with his eggs with as much aplomb as he could muster while Ron talked, and then the conversation drifted into other channels. He was starting to tire, but he enjoyed their company and liked hearing Ron talk about work. He missed being useful, and Ron informed him that Auror Gillick had been pestering him for information about Harry’s condition. Apparently Malfoy had sent an owl informing him that Harry may be out for quite some time. That, too, surprised Harry as he listened to the redhead recount the story. 

It felt good to talk to his friends about something other than his debility, and he found himself mentally repeating a mantra that he would be back to his life soon. When Ron stopped talking mid-sentence, Harry turned around to see Malfoy entering the room, wondering if all of the modifications had been made already. 

“You should be able to get through the doorways now. The bath lift is also already in place, so you should have no problems with bathing,” the Healer said.

Ron folded his arms, glaring at Malfoy as he spoke. Harry couldn’t help wondering why. The redhead had sided with Hermione himself about Malfoy’s position. Apparently noticing the scowl, Malfoy sneered very slightly.

“I think you should leave now, Weasley. Potter needs to get some rest, and he won’t get that with you babbling at him.”

Ron looked like he was going to offer a sharp retort, but Hermione grabbed his arm and shook her head, indicating that an argument wasn’t going to be helpful. 

“I’m going to stay a few more days,” she said, and kissed Ron quickly to distract him. 

“What?” Ron demanded, his face falling ludicrously. “I thought you were coming home!”

“Let’s take this somewhere else, Ron. It’ll be fine. I want to make sure Harry has everything he needs.”

Ron sighed heavily and stood, taking Hermione by the arm, leading her from the room.

Harry said a short goodbye and turned to look at Malfoy, whose face was a calm, impenetrable mask again. Harry half thought that it had been worth the stupid episode with the sweet just to see an actual expression on his face. 

“Do you need help operating the lift?” Malfoy asked. 

Harry felt his face flame, somewhat to his disgust, and could not quite meet the blond’s eyes as he answered. “No, I think I can work it out.”

“We’ll stretch your legs when you’re done, then,” Malfoy said, and turned to leave. 

“Malfoy,” Harry called, before he could get out of the room, “Kreacher will do whatever you need. I’ve ordered him to obey you.”

The Healer did not turn round, though he did remain on the threshold, where he had paused at Harry’s voice. “Ah, how nice. The first thing I’ll have him do is clean all of your drawers and cupboards of any remaining magical foodstuffs.” The sneer Harry had found conspicuous by its absence earlier was plain in Malfoy’s voice. “Tell me, Potter, how is it that you managed to find Pepper Imps in your bedside table? Granger said that George Weasley had been your last visitor, and that was weeks ago. Did you specifically order your house-elf to be slovenly in cleaning out the spare room?”

“I’ve already said I’m sorry. It was a mistake. What else do you want?” Harry demanded. Why the fuck does he get to me so fast? He’s only Malfoy, for fuck’s sake!

“Nothing. But I trust that you see that all outward appearances indicate that you have some sort of suicidal impulse where any normal person has a survival drive, and that you need to think before you act.”

“Right. I really am sorry,” Harry said, more softly, and met Malfoy’s intense gaze when the blond looked slowly over his shoulder, sincerely trying to show that he meant what he had said.

Malfoy nodded once in response and left, and Harry sat at the table for a moment longer to finish his tea before making his way to the bedroom. 

He was grateful that the doorway was now wide enough for him to glide through without banging his knees or elbows on the wooden frame. He went straight to the wardrobe in the corner and pulled out a pair of pyjamas then made his way to the bathroom to work out how the bath lift worked. His cheeks coloured again at the thought of Malfoy offering his assistance, and he shook his head, looking at the strange Muggle device as he undressed and checked that there was a towel on the rail behind him, ready for use when he managed to drag himself out again.

Inside the bath, a blue padded device that looked like a small chair occupied about three quarters of the length of the bath. Harry moved the arm of his wheelchair and put it in position for an easy transfer. He leant forward and started the water, hoping for a nice enjoyable soak; he felt like shit after everything he had been through already. He had to lift his legs over the ledge of the tub, but overall it was easy enough to get from the chair to the lift. It was comfortable enough, he thought, as he picked up the control and chuckled at its simplicity: there were only two options on the control, and they were easy enough to work out. As the bath filled, Harry lowered himself into the water and reclined gratefully. 

He soaked long enough for the water to begin cooling before he actually began washing, using the hand-held showerhead to wet and rinse his hair. As the water drained, he activated the lift and rose slowly. Lifting his legs from the bath first, Harry then placed one of the towels on his chair seat and transferred across to it for ease of towelling off and dressing. He found himself quite proud of his performance.

He was still having a bit of trouble getting used to dressing, but he managed, thankful that he didn’t require any help from either Hermione or Malfoy. He glided to the bedroom and moved to the bed, settling himself comfortably on his back to wait for Malfoy. 

A firm knock at the door announced Malfoy’s arrival, and Harry called out for him to enter. The Healer went through the motions with precision and asked Harry to remove his shirt. Harry should have known that Malfoy would ask that of him, but he was tired and wasn’t thinking too clearly. The day’s events had worn him out, and he just wanted to go to sleep.

Harry removed his shirt, his cheeks burning hot as Malfoy pressed his cool, calloused fingers into his ribs, gauging his reactions and sensitivity to each touch. He strapped Harry’s ribs and departed without saying a word, and Harry settled into the bedding, pulling the duvet under his chin and fell into a restless sleep. 

To be continued…


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 10: Standing Still

 

“Where do you want these, Harry?” Luna asked dreamily, her eyes clouded with an exultant haze that made Harry wonder where she really was. She turned on the spot, her radish earrings bobbing as though they had been charmed to dance, and stopped, her lips curving at the edges. She was carrying what Harry glumly recognised as a large pile of letters, and was trailed by a few boxes drifting gently in mid-air. Some of them were adorned with animated drawings, and all of them were garishly decorated. One of the packages began to spout red and pink confetti which quickly formed an untidy heap on the floor beneath the box from which it issued, and Harry scowled at the mess, damning his inability to use magic. 

“On the table. Thanks, Luna,” he replied with a yawn. The fragrance of steeping tea penetrated his sleep-fogged mind, and he reached for one of the pre-prepared cups, inhaling the familiar scent with fondness. 

“A Blibbering Humdinger is in the tree outside, and it keeps teasing the owls as they pass.” The blonde witch began to hum a soft tune as she flicked her wand, apparently losing her interest in the wildlife, directing the boxes to settle on one of the tables one by one. She tapped the box with the confetti-spewing bow with her wand and watched as it shrivelled like a dead plant, and then quickly Vanished the mess left by the enchanted adornment with a flick of her wrist. “Perfect!” she exclaimed.

A brief smile flitted across Harry’s face, and Luna took a seat across from him, her fingers tapping in sync with her soft song. Her head bounced in a cadence totally unrelated to her humming, and Harry took another sip of his tea, merely shaking his head at his friend’s eccentricity: for as long as he had known her, Luna had without pause or deviation marched to the beat of a drum only she heard. The soft clatter of porcelain interrupted the quiet melody as she reached for one of the cups and asked, “Where’s Draco?”

Harry shrugged as he reached for a piece of toast. “He doesn’t normally eat breakfast down here.” 

“Why not?” she asked, her large, pale eyes actually focussing on him for a moment. Why she had taken to calling Malfoy by his given name, Harry had no idea, and he didn’t ask. He knew better than to question Luna’s reasons for anything. “I suppose he’s afraid of getting Nargles in his hair again,” she said softly, after a meditative moment, before Harry could think of a reply. “You’ve got an infestation of them in your garden,” she added, leaning forward. 

“I’ve no idea.” Harry yawned again, and looked at the table where Luna had placed the letters and packages. The large surface was full of missives from witches and wizards concerned with Harry’s physical and mental health, offering assistance in the form of Galleons and whatever else he might need. The Prophet hadn’t released the specifics of his infirmity, and Harry was thankful for that, but, apparently, even those charged with patient confidentiality couldn’t be trusted when it came to his health and privacy. Malfoy, Harry recollected with an odd sense of satisfaction, had hit the roof and at once composed one of the most masterfully blistering Howlers it had ever been Harry’s privilege to overhear for the edification of the hospital’s directors. 

Once the article in the Daily Prophet about his sudden illness had been published, his life had once again become the centre of attention in wizarding Britain; at least this time it hadn’t been a pack of lies, but it had hardly been the whole truth either. Malfoy’s entertaining reaction aside, as far as Harry was concerned, the headlines on the front page were no more than a minor irritation, and he couldn’t be arsed to care whether they printed that he had morphed into a Veela, or some other magical creature, overnight. 

The piles of enchanted parchments had grown exponentially until Harry had begged Hermione to toss them in the bin, anything to keep the reminders of his ‘special’ status from the forefront of his thoughts. She hadn’t done as he had asked, though, and the large table reflected her stubborn refusal to acquiesce. Now, Harry was sick of looking at the damned things and hoped that they might spontaneously implode if he ignored them long enough. At least if the pile suddenly disappeared, he wouldn’t feel obliged to thank each witch and wizard personally for their concerns, however incorrect their assumptions regarding his illness were. 

“Are any of those,” Harry asked, pointing at a large stack of post separate from the teeming pile, “replies to the wedding cancellation?”

“A few,” Luna responded, stirring her tea with her wand, which made even Harry, who wasn’t exactly meticulous about wand-care, flinch. “Mrs Weasley was quite upset, but she did ask me to tell you that you were always welcome at the Burrow.” Harry was thankful that he had friends like Luna and Hermione to help with cancelling all of the plans he and Ginny had made for their wedding. The two witches had composed and owled all of the letters. In two days, Harry and Ginny would have been exchanging their vows, becoming Mr and Mrs Potter… 

“Right,” Harry replied, sighing heavily. He grabbed a piece of toast and nibbled its rough edges as Luna cocked her head to the side and scrutinised him.

“What happened isn’t your fault, Harry. Ginny expected you to be someone that you aren’t.” Luna smiled softly, staring at a point somewhere off above his left shoulder. “Besides, you can’t always be the hero. Someone has to save you sometimes.” Flummoxed by her response, Harry stared at Luna dumbly until she stood suddenly and left the room. The sound of her shoes echoed on the floor, and he watched her blonde hair retreat around the corner into the kitchen even as he wondered what she had meant by that. His reverie quickly ended with Malfoy’s entrance into the dining room, though. 

Harry stared at the impeccably dressed wizard for a moment before finishing his toast and taking a sip of tea to quench his parched throat. He closed his eyes and exhaled calmly, considering his next course of action. For the last two weeks, Malfoy had stretched his legs, knees, ankles, and toes after breakfast, making sure that they were remaining healthy during their prolonged lack of use. Lately, the Healer had also taken to giving his limbs massages to assist with circulation. The bruise in the centre of his chest was now only a soft yellowish spot covered by his chest hair, and, while he still felt a little pain when sitting up in bed or moving hastily, his ribs had begun to mend nicely, according to Malfoy. Harry had hated when the other wizard had once again asked him to remove his shirt and allow him to examine Harry’s upper torso. The feel of the other wizard’s calloused fingers had unnerved him as they pressed against his tender ribs. There had been at least one good thing from all those awkward meetings, though: a week ago, Malfoy had stopped strapping Harry’s ribs, and had taught him a few breathing exercises to help keep his lungs clear. 

“How are you sleeping?” Malfoy asked coolly, looking out of the large window, seemingly admiring something that only he could see through the clear panes.

“The same,” Harry replied, not turning his attention away from his cup of tea. 

“Any problems with the bath lift?” Malfoy asked, drifting from the window to the array of post spread across the adjacent table. He trailed a finger along the edge of the box with the wilted bow and turned around to face Harry.

“No, I appreciate it. It makes bathing much easier.” While Harry truly did appreciate Malfoy’s attention to his needs as a patient, he still found the whole situation monumentally unfair: all he had to show for the trials he had endured was a Muggle bath lift and wider doorways. Hermione had gone back to her life, marriage, and job – things he had had to forget about in the throes of his yet-unidentified sickness. He hadn’t expected Hermione to stay around, although he had appreciated her help and brief visits. Luna had taken her place by visiting in the mornings and sometimes evenings, staying with him for a few hours, offering silence when it was needed and a distraction when the weight of everything had become suffocating. 

“You aren’t opening any of those, are you?” Malfoy asked, pointing to the table. His tone sounded almost accusing to Harry, and reminded him painfully of his recklessness with the Pepper Imp. Between irritation and residual shame, his first instinct was to snap in response, but he restrained the urge. 

“No, Luna and Hermione take care of checking for any magic before they give them to me.” Malfoy eyed him sceptically, and Harry added, “I wish they’d just chuck them in the bin.” Malfoy didn’t reply, so Harry continued, “I— Is Kreacher being helpful?” Harry looked up, but the other wizard’s face was impassive, and Harry took a sip of tea to distract himself from the uncomfortable silence. 

“Be ready to stretch in five minutes. I’ll need to ask you some questions afterwards,” Malfoy said and left the room.

Harry simply nodded, wondering when the other wizard would stop ignoring his tentative overtures. If he was going to have to live with Malfoy for the time being, he wanted their interactions, however limited, not to feel so heavy with subtext and history. The last thing he needed was stress to exacerbate his sickness. 

Harry heard Luna humming again, and she re-entered the dining room, her face concealed by the large stack of books floating before her. “Hermione left these for you earlier. She stopped in before she went to the Ministry. She thought you might enjoy something other than watching the plants die in the garden.”

“Thanks,” Harry smiled softly, returning to his toast, concentrating on taking small bites as he willed his throat to work, forcing the food into his stomach. He hadn’t been very hungry in the past few days. Whenever Hermione or Luna ate with him, they refused to allow him to leave the table until he’d cleared at least half of the contents of his plate, and he suspected that Malfoy had said something to them. He knew he had been losing weight, and he had tried to stomach more, but he had begun to grow nauseated if he even attempted it. He wondered if they understood how difficult it had become to swallow foods that had no flavour. The porridge that Malfoy had prescribed for his breakfast for the first week after Harry had quasi-settled in his new life, had grown stale quickly, and Harry had needed a change. 

Harry finished his tea and headed to his bedroom, easily moving through the widened doorways. He was glad that he no longer hit his knees each time he tried to manoeuvre the strange wheelchair over the formerly narrow threshold, and all of the residual bruises had finally faded. He hadn’t asked Malfoy how he had done it; he had only wanted to know that it would be reversible when his circumstances changed, and Malfoy had assured him that everything would easily be set to rights when the time came. 

Easing himself onto the bed, Harry lay still to wait for Malfoy, who entered only a moment later. The Healer stretched each limb with the almost-obsessive care he had always taken over the exercises. While he had no real control over his lower limbs, Harry’s body appreciated the pains Malfoy always took over it, never hurting him, always listening when Harry let him know it had become too much. Malfoy had even taken to assisting him if he was struggling to adjust his pillows or transfer from the bed to chair and vice versa. It was odd for Harry to see Malfoy as a Healer and not the spoilt boy from Hogwarts, and he was beginning to see that the man Malfoy had grown into since the war was a mystery to him. 

A soft voice in the back of his mind reminded him that the blond wouldn’t be around long, though, and getting to know him would just be a waste of time. When things went back to normal, they would go their separate ways and pick up the threads of their lives, forgetting the stress and trauma of the past two weeks.

Harry lay still, focussing on his easy breaths as Malfoy Summoned a chair and took a seat next to the bed. He crossed his long legs, and Harry anchored himself into a sitting position against a mound of deep pillows situated behind him. He folded his legs together, grabbing his calves to position his uncooperative legs, seeking physical comfort in an emotionally difficult situation. He just hoped that Malfoy had no more questions about his sex life. 

“I’ve been running some tests on your blood,” Malfoy began. “So far, I have found nothing out of the ordinary, but it’s not a speedy process. I am able to use magic to run the tests, which makes it a little faster than doing everything by hand. The results I’ve had so far have not been enlightening, however; they don’t tell me anything I don’t already know about your physical symptoms, or anything at all about the cause.” The irritating Quick-Quotes Quill continued to scratch the parchment as the Healer spoke. “Are you still experiencing headaches regularly?”

“No.”

“Any nausea, vomiting, or further lack of appetite?” Malfoy asked, looking at Harry expectantly.

Harry paused, his cheeks colouring, to consider whether he wanted to admit to any of those symptoms. He hadn’t vomited at all, but he had felt nauseous, and his appetite had reduced considerably in the past two weeks. While he knew that Malfoy was probably his only chance of finding out what was wrong with him, he still felt uneasy about divulging the extent of his debility, particularly to a man he still couldn’t help thinking of as, to some degree at least, untrustworthy. “No. I’m getting tired of eating porridge for breakfast, though,” he added with a half smile. Malfoy had to know that he hadn’t been eating properly: he had been watching every other detail of Harry’s life like a Jarvey stalking a gnome, and it annoyed Harry that the Healer nonetheless seemed insistent that he should say the words almost as much as it annoyed him that the blond retained that distant, masked expression. It was the look of a Healer long-inured to patients’ half-truths and excuses, Harry realised; and, even as he recognised with a small swell of guilt that he was doing it himself, he wondered how Malfoy found it remotely rewarding to spend his days getting lied to and picking his way through half-truths and omissions glibly handed to him by those he was trying to help. 

Grey eyes met Harry’s, cornering him for a moment before breaking away without challenging him on his own deception. “I need to do some reflex tests today. The more information I have, the better I will be able to diagnose your illness.”

“You still don’t have any ideas yet?” he asked, hoping that Malfoy would have an answer for him. He’d asked nearly every day for two weeks, but the Healer had replied similarly every time.

“I’m working on it, Potter. This sort of thing takes time. At St Mungo’s I would have an entire team of mediwitches and wizards helping, but now it’s just me. You’ll have to be patient.” 

“Well, that’s helpful,” Harry retorted, folding his arms. He wanted answers. Any explanation for his lack of mobility would have sufficed, anything to give him a sense of something to fight, to make him want to fight for his life, even though it had crumbled so far that he wasn’t entirely sure it could be rebuilt.

Malfoy tutted, and Harry thought he might have seen a flicker of irritation in the blond’s eyes, but his voice and bearing remained perfectly composed. “I can tell you for certain that you haven’t been poisoned. Not only is your blood healthy, but there are no traces of any potions or unidentifiable magical or Muggle substances in it,” he said, standing. “But you have to understand that it takes time for me to gather information. fforde-Fane—” Malfoy stopped and the chair he had occupied began to sway from the room mid-air, returning to its previous location. “I’ll work out what’s going on, but it takes time to cross-reference all of your symptoms.” The other wizard flicked his wand at the parchment, and it rolled in on itself, landing in his hand. “There are at least ten different magical illnesses which share similar indications to those you’re exhibiting, and a dozen or so Muggle diseases. I can’t just leap on the first half-plausible explanation to present itself. The stakes are too high for that, as fforde-Fane so plainly demonstrated.”

Harry watched as Malfoy turned and headed for the door, but the Healer stopped when a soft tapping from the window across the room drew his attention. On the window ledge, a brown owl tapped the glass with its beak, begging for entry. Harry started to manoeuvre to his chair, but Malfoy held up an elegant hand to stop him, and quickly closed the distance. He opened the window, was greeted by the owl with a squeak, and took the parchment tied to its leg as painfully cold air brushed Harry’s skin.

“It’s for you,” he said, pulling his wand and running it along the edges. The owl leapt from the window and flew away as Malfoy deemed the missive safe for Harry to handle, and closed the window.

Harry reached out as Malfoy neared the bed, and took the letter. He broke the Ministry seal and read the quick scribble.

“Shit,” he whispered and dropped the parchment in his lap.

Malfoy had nearly reached the door, but he stopped and turned, fixing Harry with his gaze. “Is something the matter?”

“The Minister is coming by after lunch,” Harry said, surprised. “He wants to ‘check on me’.”

“Ah, well I’m afraid that the Minister will have to wait.”

“Wh-what? Why?”

“Because, Potter, knowing you, the moment he steps through and begins talking about work, you’ll focus on that rather than relaxing, as you should be. For all I know, stress is the underlying factor in this to begin with, and the Minister’s appearance in your grate could cause another seizure. Is that what you want?” Malfoy asked pointedly.

“N— No,” Harry replied.

“After lunch, you need to come back in here and lie down. After I advise the Minister that his appearance could cause undue stress, I still have some reflex tests to perform.”

“Fine,” Harry sighed. After Malfoy had left, closing the door behind him, Harry dragged himself to the edge of the bed and transferred to his chair. He made his way to the bathroom and pulled himself into a standing position, bracing his uncooperative body against the wall as he unbuttoned his jeans and took a piss. When his bladder was empty, he pulled his jeans over his hips with one hand, and lowered himself back into the chair before washing his hands, and re-buttoning his trousers. Malfoy had thought of everything, it seemed; there were bars along the wall surrounding the toilet to make it easier for Harry to use the bathroom, and the sink was lower, just like the dining room table, but, while he was grateful, he still held the hope that all of these physical reminders of his illness would be gone soon, and that he’d be back to normal. He hated the loss of control, and glanced at himself in the mirror, searching for the ghosts of his past, for a moment almost wishing that he had taken the train when it had been offered. Death would be easier than the half-life he felt like he had been living for the past month.

His cheekbones had become more pronounced than before, and he found himself staring into the mirror, wondering who sat before him. The man reflected in the silvery surface was only a shell with dull green eyes and a strong chin, nothing like the intrepid Auror who used to chase Dark wizards about the country so that his family would be safe.

Family, he thought, painfully. That seemed so far away to him now, a distant memory of promises made, but never fulfilled.

As he looked in the mirror, he began to wonder if maybe Ron had been right. Maybe since he had become ill, he had begun to neglect Ginny somehow, but hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself. He had loved her, but now all he felt at the mention of her name was a surge of anger that made his head ache painfully and his heart feel as though someone had reached into his chest and clenched it in an unyielding fist; in its own way, it was more painful than the Cruciatus Curse. He couldn’t understand her motivations no matter how she had tried to rationalise her choices to him. The risk of hurting Ginny had never swayed the importance of being honest with her, and Harry had tried desperately to make her understand that he just wanted to be Harry, and not the Saviour of the wizarding world. There were too many expectations of perfection from the Saviour, but Harry… Harry could be a normal man, and have the luxury of making mistakes that their Saviour would never make…

“It doesn’t matter,” he said wistfully, turning to leave. He settled in bed, struggling to find a comfortable position, closing his eyes as his incoherent thoughts followed him into sleep.   
~*~*~*~

 

Harry woke to a knock at his door and Malfoy’s voice on the other side calling him to lunch, its cool detachment having already become entirely too familiar. It took a few moments to fully wake, his mind groggy and his body sluggish as he sat up, blinking to adjust to the light. He righted his clothes and transferred to his chair, and headed to the dining room. A plate had already been placed on the table with a glass of water. He didn’t particularly care for the fare selected, but he eyed it and took a few bites under the Healer’s scrutiny before the blond departed, presumably to take his own lunch in the kitchen. Harry sat alone through his meal, thinking about the past and his future, wondering where he would end up once his illness had passed. He thought about Ginny, knowing that he would never be able to reconcile with her, not after what she had done. It hurt to think about it, so he tried to push it aside and consider his options instead, knowing that if he focussed on her, he would only do himself more harm. 

As Harry called Kreacher to clear his plate, only half empty, he wheeled back to his room and got back into bed, wanting to go back to sleep. Apart from the occasional nightmares, his sleep was normal – his dreams were normal – and he felt like a whole human being again, a real wizard, and man. As he began to nod off, voices from the other room drew his attention. He had only heard short snatches of dialogue, but he recognised Kingsley’s deep voice and Malfoy’s lighter but equally resonant timbre oscillating as the seconds crept by slowly. 

Harry’s first instinct was to stay where he was and not waste energy, but then he heard Hermione’s voice join the dispute. He got out of bed as quickly as his uncooperative body would allow and settled in his chair. He opened the bedroom door quietly, and eased forward enough to see around the corner, listening, watching, as Malfoy talked to the Minister.

“I understand your concern, Minister, but I have already sent Auror Gillick a statement regarding Mr Potter’s health. My patient does not need any undue stress, and I will personally hex the pubic hair off the next person who attempts to contact him regarding his position in the Ministry,” Malfoy stated, uncompromising.

“Harry needs to fill in the paperwork, though. I’m sure you understand the importance of keeping accurate records, Healer,” Kingsley replied.

“Sod the paperwork! Just tell them that Mr Potter will be on leave for an indefinite amount of time and sign the papers yourself.”

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Malfoy had just told the Minister to sod the paperwork… There was a real edge to Malfoy’s voice, which surprised Harry, since the Healer had only ever evinced dislike for or dispassion about him, and he sat perplexed, trying to work out what Malfoy was playing at.

Kingsley eyed Malfoy a moment and turned towards the fireplace. “Give Harry my regards. I’ll see what I can do about keeping Auror Gillick satisfied,” he said, and stepped into the grate. With a toss of Floo powder, he was gone, and Hermione stood with her mouth agape.

“Well, that was certainly an exercise in influencing people without making friends,” Hermione remarked, her face alight with mirth. 

“I’m not here to make friends, Granger,” Malfoy said. He turned to leave the room and stopped, his gaze pinning Harry in place as their eyes locked, a maelstrom of something unreadable swimming in the grey depths.

Hermione’s gaze followed Malfoy’s, and she smiled softly at Harry. 

Malfoy didn’t speak, but Harry had the strangest feeling in his gut as he watched the wizard leave quickly, his long legs carrying him swiftly up the stairs. He wasn’t entirely sure what had brought about the manifestation of the Healer’s inexplicably aggressive protective streak and had barely even begun to question it to himself when Hermione spoke, “Harry, I brought you some puzzles to keep you busy.” 

“Thanks,” he replied, still stunned by Malfoy’s display of uncharacteristic animation. 

“I’ll put them in the conservatory,” she said. “I have to get back to work, but I’ll pop back again in the morning. I have to take Malfoy to the village shop so he can pick up some food and things.” She smiled. “Feeling all right today?”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Good. See you in the morning. Try to get some rest.” She offered him a brief hug and left, the sound of the Floo igniting in her wake as Harry went to the conservatory. Hail pelted loudly against the glass panes, and he poured the contents of one of the boxes onto one of the tables that his friends had set up for him earlier in the week. 

After Malfoy conducted his reflex tests, Harry kept himself busy with one of the puzzles until Kreacher appeared, telling him that dinner was ready. He went to eat and, as he slowly chewed the tasteless food, he let his mind wander. 

Malfoy was at the centre of his tumultuous thoughts. Hermione’s statement about the Healer never bothering Harry struck him, and he wondered if maybe it was time to start afresh. Their history was complicated, but he found that he would prefer their interactions to be less edged, so he decided it was time to make the effort to begin closing the gaping wound of their long-held enmity. With his mind made up, he took a bath and dressed slowly, trying to avoid agitating his side.

As he lay in bed waiting for Malfoy to stretch his legs, he decided that making the attempt was better than nothing. The worst that could happen was that Malfoy would reject him in turn, but Harry was willing to take that chance. He was tired of the tension that seemed to bubble around them no matter how calm Malfoy appeared. 

He removed his shirt just as Malfoy’s punctual knock resounded in the room. He bade him entrance and watched the other man carefully as he checked Harry’s ribs again. 

“How is your breathing?” he asked, his fingers pressing against his always tender ribs.

“Fine.”

“Any coughing?”

“No. I’m okay,” Harry replied, and looked at Malfoy, studying his pointed features for a moment. He realised he had never really looked at Malfoy before, and noticed the hint of fine lines around his eyes. Harry wondered for a moment if he was sleeping all right in his and Ginny’s former bed, but refrained from asking.

He moved to Harry’s legs and slowly began the usual routine, but this time he wasn’t silent.

“You need to eat more. You’re losing too much weight.”

“I am eating,” Harry protested, using his elbows to lift himself up to look at the Healer as he worked.

“Lie back down,” he commanded. “And, no, you aren’t. Kreacher informs me how much is left on your plate after meals. Would you like to explain why you aren’t eating?”

Harry didn’t speak for a moment, assessing his options. He had already accepted Malfoy as his Healer, and genuinely did believe the man capable of getting to the bottom of his malady one way or another, but if he wanted the experience to be other than wholly unpleasant – which he did – and maybe a little swifter, even, if Malfoy were one of those who worked better if he felt trusted, he needed to demonstrate some measure of faith in him. Malfoy had never given him any reason to suspect incompetence, and Harry sighed heavily, finally meeting the Healer’s steady gaze. 

“It tastes awful. Every time I smell food, it makes me feel like I’m going to throw up,” Harry said frankly.

Malfoy released his leg and looked at him for a moment. “All foods?”

Harry nodded, watching as Malfoy stretched his feet and toes. 

“But you aren’t having any headaches?”

“No, not since the Pepper Imp.”

“I’ll look into it, but you’ve really got to eat. It’s not healthy to lose so much weight so quickly.”

Harry nodded again, his cheeks colouring as the Healer helped him onto his side and continued, his hands methodically easing the tension in his lower body. 

“Just try to eat. You need to gain a few pounds back. Usually people who are sedentary gain weight, Potter,” Malfoy said, continuing. “We’ll try something new for breakfast and see if that helps. If not, I’m afraid we’ll have to look into other methods. I’ve never had to supervise a multi-substance withdrawal before, so I can’t be sure to what degree that’s contributing to your lack of appetite.” 

Harry didn’t want to think of what ‘other methods’ meant; and he was too concerned with trying to ignore the way Malfoy touched him. He took a moment to process what the Healer had said and asked, “Wait— Withdrawal? What are you talking about?”

Malfoy blinked in astonishment a few times, evidently thrown by the fact that Harry had had to ask, “The potions, Potter. Dreamless Sleep, various pain potions, Calming Draught… and the rest. There were empty vials all over the place: the rate you’ve been going through them says quite clearly that you’ve developed a tolerance for them. The vials are dated,” he answered the question Harry hadn’t even formed in his mind. “I’m surprised you never noticed, being an Auror. And your friends were able to confirm that you seldom seemed to be without a vial in your hand.” A look of vague dissatisfaction crossed the aristocratic face, but it dissolved into the usual clinical calm as Malfoy focussed on him again. “There’s no question that you’ve formed at least a physiological dependency, and possibly some psychological dependency, as well. I’m sorry, Potter. It honestly didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t be aware of it.” He repositioned Harry’s body, steadily speaking as he worked. “But that's why I'm not unduly worried about your headaches or the dreams. They're fairly normal withdrawal symptoms. The loss of appetite, though, is not. Not for the potions you’ve been taking, anyway.”

“Dreams?” Harry asked, wondering how Malfoy knew that his sleep was generally restless.

“The ones during which you say things like 'no' and 'please' and 'get down!', Potter. I presume they're not erotic. Or, if they are, I don't want to know anything further.” Harry couldn’t control the blush that stained his face as Malfoy continued, “You should find that they decrease in frequency as your body adjusts to the diminished potion levels.”

“H-how do you know that?”

“I’m a Healer, Potter,” he replied. At Harry’s expression of confusion, he added, “Making rounds is part of the job.” 

“How often do you make rounds?” Harry asked. “Here, I mean,” he amended, genuinely curious as to how often Malfoy looked in on him while he was asleep. The thought made him slightly uneasy, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

“Every three hours,” he responded. 

When the silence had become unbearably thick, he let the first question that came to mind tumble forth without thinking. “Are you sleeping okay?” Harry was unsure whether he actually cared how Malfoy was sleeping, or whether he just wanted a distraction from the Healer's duties, but he wanted to know, especially since Malfoy was constantly checking on him throughout the night, and waited for the sharp rejoinder he knew was coming.

Malfoy gave Harry a strange look, replying, “I'm surprised it's of any concern to you, Potter, but yes, thank you. Quite acceptably.” The Healer finished, straightening, and said, “I’ll look into alternatives for your breakfast. For now, get some rest.” And Harry was surprised at the lack of edge to the Healer’s voice.

Harry nodded, moving his legs off the bed. He needed to use the loo, and couldn’t wait. As he moved, Malfoy steadied him, assisting Harry to stand and turn into the chair.

“Thanks,” Harry replied. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

The blond simply nodded and left as Harry made his way to the loo. After the painstaking task of taking a piss, Harry lay back down with his mind made up. In the morning, he’d offer his hand in friendship, or at least truce. He was tired of holding onto old rivalries anyway, and it just seemed silly to cling onto something that could only get in the way of Malfoy doing something Harry needed him to do. As Harry closed his eyes, he felt his weary spirits lift a bit, and slipped into the least restless sleep he had had in two weeks.

To Be Continued...


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: An Offering of Peace

 

Draco woke just as a light rain had begun to assail Hightrees. He sat up, stretching his sleep-stiffened limbs, and looked out of the window. He could tell it was cold, and the expanse of pale grey sky sent a shiver of discomfort down his spine as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Yawning, he padded to the en-suite, and managed to take a piss despite a painfully straining erection. He completed his morning ablutions and combed his hair, even though he knew its neatness wouldn’t last beyond the moment he stepped into the increasingly heavy December rain. Dressing warmly, he left quietly, not wanting to wake Potter as he passed the man’s bedroom on the way to the front door. 

He strode along Church Street at a brisk pace, glancing at the garish Muggle Christmas decorations from time to time. Houses had been strung with lights that were black in the early morning light. The simple un-enchanted adornments made Draco scoff, feeling superior in the ways that magic made his world liveable and alive. Draco pitied the Muggles and their crippled, flawed attempts to mimic the beauty of wizard Christmas decorations.

As he walked, his mind became increasingly occupied with familiar thoughts of his patient, and his contemplation of his surroundings was set aside. Potter had lost enough weight to concern him, and Draco knew that there were other symptoms that Potter refused to mention or genuinely failed to think of as ‘symptoms’. The man seemed to have no grasp whatever of the concept of helping himself, as far as his medical status was concerned; he was a classic example of misguided stoicism, fostered by wrong-headed stubbornness and impulsiveness masquerading as the cardinal Gryffindor virtues of nerve and bravery. For Draco, it was frustrating to have to explain in easily-understood little words what ought to have been plain common sense, outlining as if for an imbecile or a small child what Potter should and should not do to maintain what remained of his health. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said there were dozens of illnesses that could be causing Potter’s infirmity, but he wasn’t ready to admit that he hadn’t a clue where to start his differential diagnosis. He was still categorising each manifested symptom, trying to find common links between them and Potter’s history.

The importance of keeping Potter healthy in the meantime had been paramount in Draco’s mind, and with Granger by his side, he had met with the Muggle woman in the village, discussing specifically how meals were to be prepared for his patient’s consumption. A fair price had been settled upon after much debate, and Granger had handed over the strange currency, eliminating the need for Draco to attend to Potter’s nutritional requirements as though he were a house-elf, or worry about Kreacher’s ability to cook without magic. 

He arrived at the Muggle woman’s home and retrieved the meals for the day, careful not to slip on the slush forming on the pavement from the hail which had begun to replace the rain. On his trip back to Hightrees, gloomily aware of his impending second foray of the day deeper into the Muggle world with Granger, which the inclement weather made only less appealing than it had already been, it crossed his mind again that some other arrangement needed to be made. Continuing to pay the Muggle woman to prepare three meals a day for the two of them was impractical, as she couldn’t come to the house and he was uncomfortable leaving Potter with only Kreacher for supervision for the ten or fifteen minutes it took him to complete the trip to collect the food; and there was absolutely no way he could even consider Kreacher preparing meals, not with the possibility that magically prepared fare would kill his patient. An alternative was needed, even though the Muggle woman’s cooking was surprisingly good, but he didn’t want to take any chances where Potter’s health was concerned. 

He pushed those thoughts aside for later, though. He really needed to heat Potter’s breakfast before he went off with Granger to the village shop. He didn’t relish taking the jaunt with her; she was still a Mudblood, and one who had been particularly responsible for making his life hell during Hogwarts at that. He was also more than half inclined to dispute the necessity of the trip, no matter what Granger had said about needing to keep the larder stocked. Admittedly, she did sometimes prepare a supper of scrambled eggs or baked beans on toast, or soup, or some such thing to share with Weasley and her patient, but he found it difficult to believe that bringing a loaf of bread or whatever else was necessary would have strained the witch’s resources unduly. He hadn’t bothered arguing with her, however. It would have been a waste of energy – given that she was as obstinate as a troll, and Potter would inevitably have weighed in on her side – and undignified to boot.

It was still early when he stepped through the black door of Potter’s home and went to the kitchen, starting up the cooker. Granger had had to teach him how to operate it, much to his irritation. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t have been capable of working it out, but she had insisted on helping, and that had further made Draco wish that she had returned to her life sooner.

At least it was just him and Potter actually living in the house. He wasn’t sure that he could have put up with more than that. It was trying enough to deal with Potter’s intractable nature, never mind his friends. But Draco reminded himself that once he ascertained the underlying cause of Potter’s affliction and dealt with it, his life would change: he wouldn’t be known as a Death Eater any more; he would be known as the man who had saved Harry Potter’s life. 

As the food heated in the cooker, Draco left to knock on Potter’s door. He waited a few minutes, and after not receiving the typical grunt of permission to enter or even sounds of the other wizard stirring, Draco opened the door, hoping that Potter wasn’t wanking, or something equally disturbing. Though he doubted Potter had the energy for such things: the man had already begun to display enough symptoms of depression that Draco doubted he could manage an erection even if he cast a Levitation Charm on his cock. 

The sheets and duvet were haphazardly hanging off the bed, and Potter had one arm lying at an awkward angle above his head as he slept, his soft snores mingling with the sound of the sleet against the window. Draco looked at the sleeping man for a moment before barking, “Potter! Wake up!”

Potter’s arm shifted, but the man showed no signs of waking. “Potter!” he barked again; this time, Potter’s eyes snapped open, and he blinked, squinting.

“Go away,” Potter muttered, his voice hoarse from lack of use, his hand running along his stomach as he settled more comfortably into the bedding.

“Wake up! It’s time to eat,” Draco said, carefully maintaining his usual distance as Potter groaned petulantly. 

“I’m not hungry,” he grumbled, reaching for his spectacles on the bedside table. “Just stretch my legs, and let me sleep.”

“You know that’s out of the question. You’ve got five minutes,” Draco said flatly, leaving the room when Potter sat up slowly. He didn’t stay behind to help this time; he could smell their breakfast, and his own stomach began to protest at the lack of nourishment that he had been treating it to for the past week. It felt demeaning for him to have to carry Potter’s breakfast tray, complete with a fragrant mug of his favourite Assam to the dining room, and Draco made a mental note to begin searching for other options sooner rather than later. 

Draco checked his watch as Potter glided to the table, his eyes still half closed, and his spectacles slightly skewed. He left Potter to eat, and as the flicker of irritation at Granger’s tardiness began to flare, the Floo roared to life, and she stepped out, her bushy hair pulled back from her thin face. 

“Morning,” she said cheerily, and swept past without a second glance. He heard her talking to Potter for a moment, and she returned, looking at Draco expectantly. “Ready?” 

Draco simply nodded, being of the view that the less he had to speak to her, the less the likelihood of upsetting the precarious calm that surrounded most of their exchanges. Draco drew on the elderly Barbour he’d been wearing when necessity took him out of the house, muttering a Water Repelling Charm to go with it, but she turned and looked at him, barely restraining the smirk that threatened to curl her lips. For a moment, she appeared to take some sadistic glee in his ignorance of day-to-day Muggle life.

Draco affected ignorance of her struggle with inappropriate amusement, and opened the door to usher her out.

Leave it to Potter to make life difficult, he thought as he followed the witch. Thankfully the walk was short, but he was cold and wet by the time they arrived at the little shop, the state of his person further souring his mood. They stepped inside, and Draco looked around, noting that it really didn’t look much different from the shops in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, but no one had come to serve him, and he was waiting, expecting something, when Granger said, “Here,” and shoved a strange, metallic-looking basket into his hand. 

The witch went ahead, looking at various items on the shelf and began carting them back: a strange squat cylinder landed in the basket with a clank, and he eyed it suspiciously, tempted to pick it up to investigate it further. But Granger quickly covered it with various other items, and Draco finally began to look around, looking askance at the large upright caskets that contained foods behind a glass door. Muggles are strange, he thought, looking at the odd, clear wrapping on some of the fruits and vegetables. He barely noticed the basket continuing to increase in weight as he studied everything in the shop.

“Malfoy! Stop staring at things and come on!” Granger hissed, pulling his arm to tow him toward the till, where an old woman with curly white hair offered him a brief smile. 

“Pay attention,” Granger said under her breath as the old woman took things out of the basket one by one, read little labels on them, and prodded a clanking box on the countertop as she passed each of them back to Granger, who dropped them into a thin, oddly-rustling bag. Having handed over all of the items, the geriatric Muggle gave the total. The witch paid, slowly counting the Muggle currency so that Draco could see how it was done. The thought of doing this alone some day grated on his nerves, but he offered the old Muggle a brief smile and left with Granger, toting bags that made too much noise for his liking. 

When they arrived back at Hightrees, their fingers frozen and clothes damp, Draco loaded the cupboards and went to check on Potter, but his closed bedroom door and his conspicuous absence from the sitting room and conservatory told Draco that he had gone back to sleep. 

Granger left quickly, stating that Weasley would call at lunchtime, and Draco nodded, masking his distaste. He inhaled and steeled his nerves for a further dose of uncooperative Potter as he knocked on the door, surprised to hear the other man’s voice bidding him enter. 

A book lay in Potter’s lap, and he closed it after marking his page as Draco entered the room. Everything had become routine, and while he understood the poorly masked annoyance in Potter’s features, he also knew that it was necessary. Draco waited calmly for Potter to remove his shirt so he could check his ribs, and went through the familiar process, finally stretching his legs as usual. He didn’t initiate conversation, but Potter tried at least three times, still not discouraged by Draco’s lack of response. 

So far, Potter was healing relatively well, and Draco was thankful for small mercies. Now, if he could get to the bottom of Potter’s condition and treat it successfully, that would give him the solid foundation he needed to build a reputation on which to redeem the Malfoy name, in his own right, without having to depend on the dubious benevolence of bureaucrats like fforde-Fane and minor political players like Benedict.

Draco turned to leave, preparing to spend the evening on his notes and observations, but Potter’s hand gripped his wrist, and he said, “Wait.” That irritating discomfiture which always accompanied Potter’s voluntary, unexpected touch made Draco turn and regard the wizard with the semblance of perfect, mildly inquiring composure. 

“Was there something else that you needed, Potter?” he asked coolly, shaking off the instinctive awkwardness. Draco was not a tactile person, least of all with those whom he held as little better than strangers: unsolicited physical contact made him uncomfortable. He had, during the course of his studies, learned about the concepts of proximity and personal space, and had made his peace with the notion that his personal space extended a good six feet around his actual body. He looked at his wrist, which Potter still held, and he could see the poor sod blush from the corner of his eye, the words tumbling from his lips.

“Er, look, I’ve, er, been thinking, D-Draco.” It was evident in the way Potter said his name that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, and Draco had to admit that it sounded strange coming from the other man, almost like a foreign language. Potter folded his lip between his teeth in the irritating tic that Draco had come to learn meant he was embarrassed about something, and the Healer lifted an eyebrow expectantly. “I’d like to start over,” he said simply and extended his hand in a bizarre echo of the gesture Draco remembered making on the Hogwarts Express many years ago.

Surprised, cautious to the verge of mistrustfulness, Draco hesitated for a moment in the face of Potter’s open offer of a formal truce. Just a truce? Potter’s expression - hopeful, somehow naïf – made him wonder. Not that they had been hostile, particularly, over the last few years. Even having returned to Hogwarts for a belated NEWT year, though they had danced warily around one another, he had assiduously avoided outright confrontation. His position had been precarious enough without courting the resentment of the Boy Who Lived Twice. But Potter’s move nonplussed him: he wasn’t sure how to take it. A formal declaration of peace? An overture of friendship? Whatever it was, he decided, it was something Potter wanted; and if granting it would enable the earnest ex-Gryffindor to sleep better at night, he was disinclined to deny it. His responsibility for Potter’s health applied as much to his mental health as his physical health, after all.

“As you wish,” Draco drawled, accepting the proffered hand and shaking it briefly. “But I don’t think that we’ve quite crossed the bridge to using our given names,” he added, releasing his grip on the other wizard’s hand. Merlin, he hated the way Potter unnerved him. Had always unnerved him.

“That’s fine,” Potter said with a small smile. “See you at lunch, Dr— Malfoy.”

A burning desire to get away from the other man drove Draco to the solace of his room. He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, sorting his thoughts methodically. The memory of that disastrous encounter on the train had surfaced rather too clearly for his peace of mind. Potter’s rejection had been ages ago and it had been the response of a child to a slight against his chosen friend, but it still rankled. As he settled into a light meditation, it occurred to him that the fact that it still stung even after so many years had passed was telling. He had allowed it to determine his behaviour in school even more than other political considerations and outside pressures, for more years than he should have; he had, unconsciously, allowed it to define him, and equally unthinkingly allowed himself to define himself as the boy Harry Potter rejected and hated. Even in the aftermath of the war, the only real consideration he had given to his relationship with Potter had been recognition that he could no longer afford hostility, and after Hogwarts he had had more immediate concerns. The sudden change in Potter’s demeanour toward him was tantamount to a slap in the bloody face, though; an unpalatable statement that it had only taken the Saviour over a decade to see Draco as more than a Death Eater, Slytherin, or consummate villain’s son. He frowned to himself. It wasn’t like him; Draco didn’t let people get under his skin, influence him, or make him feel uncertain of his footing any more, but Potter had. Draco closed his eyes and exhaled, reminding himself that it wasn’t likely to be a conscious plan to discomfit him and that in all probability the only reason Potter had offered his hand was because he was quite possibly going to die of something he couldn’t fight and didn’t want their past enmity to haunt him until his very last breath. 

Scoffing, Draco rose and paced the bedroom, disturbed and irritated. Uncharacteristically shaken by his recognition of the significance of Potter’s gesture, he found himself unable to distract himself from the distasteful train of thought; the flood-gates had opened, it seemed. He hadn’t known who Harry Potter was, at Malkin’s; just that the dark-haired boy had been someone he had met for himself, without his parents’ supervision, and he had been of an age to start recognising that his parents had chosen every friend he had ever had until then – but he hadn’t been of an age to have learned any real degree of tact. His stomach churned with embarrassment at the recollection of his behaviour on the train. Weasley had been insufferable, of course, but he had been deplorably heavy-handed himself. A milder tone, a more well-couched retort - anything other than that atrocious attempt at belittlement, stupidly stung out of him by wounded ego and sheer disbelief - and the whole scene could have gone so differently; he could have spent his schooldays Harry Potter’s friend rather than his rival, or even if not his friend, at least someone he passed in a corridor without the acrimonious exchanges that had riddled their shared past. Someone Potter had seen as a peer rather than a pariah.

Hating the man had been easy. It had been effortless as far as Draco had been concerned; it was the idea of liking him, actually mustering compassion for the idiot, that made him uneasy. In the darkest recesses of his mind, a small part of him wanted to continue to harbour the bitterness and resentment toward Potter that had sustained him, given him a drive to go on, just to prove a point, when other motivations had failed, but he couldn’t deny the unfamiliar surge of conflicting emotion that had accompanied taking Potter’s extended hand.

It’s not really personal, Draco reasoned. If he didn’t think he might be dying, he wouldn’t give a damn. But that didn’t entirely add up with Potter’s guileless Gryffindor propensities; the man wouldn’t cry truce simply to assuage his conscience, because his conscience wouldn’t be assuaged by pretence. The more he thought on it, the greater his conviction that Potter genuinely wanted to wipe the slate clean and start again grew. His difficulty was that wiping the slate clean entailed recalling what was on it in the first place, and he had no desire whatever to rake it all up again. Not, he reflected, that he really needed to rake it all up. The semblance of complaisance would appease Potter. His duty as the man’s healer included his mental and emotional wellbeing, yes, but there was no requirement anywhere that he actually like him. 

He had long been certain that the only way to find out what was ailing Potter was to go back to first principles and make proper observations before he started building a hypothesis rather than taking wild guesses like fforde-Fane had. Kneazle ’flu, indeed, Draco thought, as he gathered his notes and moved to the office at the end of the hall to work. He spread out his notes and began scanning the list of illnesses again. Deadly, painful diseases like Wizard’s Bane, Mage’s Forfeit, Sorcerer’s Evil, Beleaguer Plague, and Charm-Bleeding Insipidus seemed to jump from the parchment, together with a number of Muggle complaints, and Draco hoped, for his sake and Potter’s, that whatever was wrong was only superficially similar to these maladies.

When Kreacher popped in to inform Draco that it was time for lunch, he still hadn’t narrowed the list down satisfactorily. Potter’s symptoms were still too general, and too clouded by his potion withdrawal. He would have to continue his observations. 

Having got Potter settled for his lunch, and having informed him that Draco would be taking dinner with his mother that evening, Draco returned to the office to eat in peace, mulling over his review of his notes, trying to see if he had missed something in his earlier assessments.

In all of Draco’s time as a Healer, although he had cared for patients on a long-term basis, he had never been required to live with a patient, fitting into their space. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, and he found himself increasingly aggravated by the teeming pile of letters and packages from Potter’s ‘fan club’ and Potter’s disdainful attitude to them, his apparent complacent conviction that the concern and adulation of the world at large was so much his right that he had an equal right to dismiss it as a petty annoyance. The fact that he had to do the job of a house-elf, gathering the bedding and clothing without magic was growing tiresome, as it had always been going to, but even he had to admit that the Muggle who was taking care of the laundry was meticulous with his undergarments. 

Draco finished his lunch and headed downstairs, still thinking about his list of diseases and their common symptoms. One difficulty with the diseases he had listed, over and above their fundamental severity, was that each of their treatments entailed the use of a complex series of potions which Potter’s body simply wasn’t robust enough to ingest. That, and all direct magic seemed to affect him – for now. Draco had no idea how long they had before all magic would cause problems, and he was, as far as possible, minimising Potter’s exposure to non-essential magic as a preventive measure, so he hoped that it would never become an issue. He would have to continue monitoring Potter’s progress as he had been, of course, noting any slight changes. Muggle illnesses could be treated readily enough, but Draco had a feeling in his bones that whatever was ailing Potter wasn’t some Muggle disease, though he couldn’t rule them out. 

Water filled the kitchen sink as Draco quickly cleared the dishes, cogitation keeping him distracted from the menial task that a house-elf should be handling. And would be, if I could be sure that the magic wouldn’t somehow taint Potter’s food… 

The loud crack of a plate hitting the kitchen floor pulled Draco from his thoughts. He cursed as he bent over to pick up the thick shards of porcelain, and heard a loud guffaw. He looked up, his eyes narrowed, to see Weasley standing in the doorway, his freckled face reddening with mirth. 

“I never—” Weasley stopped, his laughter interrupting his ability to speak, “—thought that I would see the day!” he managed. “Draco Malfoy! Cleaning like a house-elf!” 

Weasley held his side, his obnoxious laughter still shaking his lanky body, and Draco gritted his teeth against the withering rejoinder dancing on the tip of his tongue. His jaw ached with the force he was using to hold the retort back, and Weasley stared at him, still laughing steadily. 

“Y-you—” 

“Grow up, Weasley,” Draco interrupted, as he tried to quell his irritation. “Go see Potter.”

The redhead walked away still laughing, and Draco muttered to himself as he finished washing up. He really needed to find a better means of dealing with the laundry, dishes, and general tidying. The house wasn’t a mess, but Potter couldn’t do much, and Draco had no desire to become a ‘house-elf’, as Weasley had so aptly put it. There was no way he could hire a Muggle, what with the density of the Muggle-Repelling charms around the house, and it would be difficult to find a witch or wizard who wouldn’t be awed by Potter – or want him dead. Draco was well aware that there were still Death Eaters on the loose in Britain, and he didn’t want to chance bringing one into Potter’s home. And then there was the fact that the average witch or wizard would be as used to using magic for domestic tasks as he was to having a house-elf do it all. No, he decided. Not a witch. A Muggle housewife would be best, but for Potter’s bloody obsessive charm-work and the secrecy issues. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the sink, and began for the first time since diatribes against Mudbloods and their inclusion in wizarding society had stopped being a feature of his daily listening to consider the exclusions from the Statute of Secrecy. Granger’s parents were both Muggles. Finnegan’s father had been, too, he recalled. He shook his head, dismissing the notion of recruiting someone’s relative: yes, it would neatly sidestep the secrecy problem, but there would remain the practical difficulty of overcoming Potter’s anti-Muggle precautions.

Filch, his mind prodded. Filch worked at Hogwarts; he’s a Squib. It made perfect sense. Squibs wouldn’t accidentally use magic or be affected by the Muggle-Repelling charms and whatnot, and he could still require an Unbreakable Vow to preserve Potter’s obsessively-guarded privacy. Granger could cast the spell for the Vow, and Draco could rest easy knowing that he didn’t have to worry about domestic arrangements while trying to find a solution to the other wizard’s illness. 

But where to find a Squib…? 

Draco returned to his room, thinking about the people he had met while working at St Mungo’s; there had only been a handful of Squibs, but he remembered one woman, Eleanor Prout, who had brought her son in. He had been hexed by his sister accidentally, and they were both Hogwarts age, though he seemed to recall that there had been at least two younger siblings. Maybe three. The family hadn’t been quite as numerous as the Weasleys, to his recollection, but they hadn’t been all that far off. Their father had been killed in the takeover of the Ministry during the war, and Draco thought that she might be a good choice, so he sat down and composed a quick note, requesting a meeting.   
The Floo was igniting just as Draco stepped into the hall. He sent Potter’s owl off with the letter, and returned to his room, relaxing before dinner with his mother. Before he knew it, the hail had slowed, and the room became darker, as afternoon became evening. He heard the Floo ignite once again, knowing it was either Granger or Lovegood, and he descended the stairs to heat Potter’s dinner. 

Soft conversation filtered to the kitchen, but Draco ignored it until Lovegood came bounding into the room, her still-protuberant eyes barely focussed as her head tilted to the side.

“An owl came for you, Draco,” she smiled, her head tilting the opposite direction as she held the missive before her. Her wand was behind her ear, briefly reminding Draco of Hogwarts.

“Thank you,” Draco replied, accepting the proffered parcel. 

It was a reply from Mrs Prout, agreeing to meet as he had suggested. He would be able to leave before dinner, when Granger and the others usually stopped by to check on Potter. Lovegood turned to leave, but Draco stopped her. “Lovegood, wait.”

“Hmm?”

“Tomorrow afternoon can you sit with Potter for a few hours? There’s something I need to take care of.” 

“Of course. Watch out for the Umgubular Slashkilter on the loose. We’ve been trying to find it, but—”

“I think I’ll manage,” Draco interrupted before the witch could continue. 

She hopped from the room gaily, leaving Draco to finish preparing Potter’s meal. His own stomach was protesting the lack of food by the time he placed the plate on the table and bid them a brief valediction.   
~*~*~*~

 

Draco took the Floo Network to Malfoy Manor, his heavy cloak wrapped around his shoulders, as he knew he would need it when he returned. He wouldn’t be able to Floo back to Hightrees, so that meant walking from Hale Close in whatever weather the season provided. 

“Draco,” Narcissa said, approaching him as he dusted the soot from his robes. 

“Hello, Mother,” he replied, accepting her brief embrace, her lips pressing softly against each of his cheeks.

She looked as regal as ever, and Draco followed her to the saloon, exchanging pleasantries along the way. Seated, they began their meal. Draco hadn’t enjoyed such exquisite fare for some time, and he was glad of his mother’s invitation. At the conclusion of their meal, they retired to the music room, where Draco courteously declined to yield to his mother’s discreet hints that she would like him to play for her. He settled with a snifter of brandy, and his mother looked at him with a soft smile.

“I understand that dear Benedict has returned to France indefinitely. I trust that this did not cause you undue distress.”

“Not the least, Mother. That situation is entirely resolved.” Draco was only slightly amused that his mother had jumped straight to the point; it really was none of her concern, and he hadn’t spared Benedict a second thought since he had ended their relationship. 

“The Daily Prophet has been publishing some interesting articles about you, dear. I was surprised to learn from them that you have chosen to become a private Healer. There must have been some very persuasive reason for that decision.”

“It wasn’t entirely premeditated,” Draco admitted. The subtlety of his mother’s conversation was almost bracing after the bluntness of Potter’s. “fforde-Fane nearly killed Potter. I saw it as an opportunity.”

She sipped her drink delicately. “Well, I trust that he has made you welcome in his home.”

Draco snorted derisively and replied, “Living with Potter is worse than dealing with the dolts admitted to Spell Damage. He’s uncouth, obtuse, obnoxious— His friends are always around. He even called me Draco today. Apparently he wants to ‘start afresh’.”

“Is that such a terrible thing?” she inquired lightly. He wasn’t deceived for a moment by the mildness of her tone and expression.

“It’s Potter,” he sighed, taking a sip of his own drink. “He’s nearly killed himself once already. He’s reckless – still a bloody Gryffindor.” He shook his head.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll give the matter due consideration before you make a decision,” she said airily, her graceful fingers straightening her robes. “Your father is unhappy that you are treating him.” The words hung thickly in the air as several seconds passed. 

“Yes, he would be.” Draco sneered eventually, and finished his drink. “I need to get back. I’ve established a routine with Potter, and I don’t want to break it.”

His mother nodded complaisantly. “Yes. Goodnight, Draco. I do hope that you’ll visit again soon. You can bring Mr Potter along with you.”

He smiled automatically, bidding his mother goodnight. He Disapparated with a crack and landed in Hale Close, hail pelting him as he picked his way carefully back to Potter’s home.   
~*~*~*~

 

Lovegood was still there when Draco returned, her feet resting in Potter’s lap on the sofa. Draco snorted at the sight, and continued to the stairs.

“Five minutes, Potter,” Draco called, heading to change into something dry. 

When he went back downstairs, Potter was back in his chair, and Lovegood was saying goodnight.

“Goodnight, Harry. I’ll owl Mrs Tonks and tell her that tomorrow is fine. Draco’s leaving for a bit, so you’ll have plenty of time with Teddy.”

“Thanks, Luna. Goodnight.”

The blonde-haired witch kissed Potter on the cheek and left in a flash of green flames. 

Draco waited patiently as Potter moved to the bedroom, and he helped the other wizard into bed. Potter was already in pyjamas, so Draco assumed that he had bathed before Draco had returned. Potter removed his shirt, and Draco went through the familiar stages of checking the recovery of the other man’s cracked ribs and observing his breathing and heart rate, but Potter wasn’t content with the silence that Draco enjoyed. 

“You smell like liquor,” Potter said, his voice tired, the words seeming to take an effort to speak. Draco could feel the vibrations in the other wizard’s chest as he spoke.

“I had one brandy, Potter. Not that it’s any of your concern.” 

“Oh,” he said, putting his shirt back on. 

“Lie down,” Draco commanded, waiting as Potter adjusted for the stretches. 

As soon as the dark-haired wizard was comfortable, Draco set about the usual routine, and Potter’s voice once again cracked the quiet he had been enjoying. 

“Why did you become a Healer?” he asked, his voice laden with unabashed curiosity. 

“Because I had to do something to redeem the Malfoy name, Potter. Something beneficial to society, ideally."

Potter gave him a blank look that suggested he didn’t understand, so Draco reluctantly elaborated for the universe’s least subtle thinker. “Oddly enough, there aren't all that many things my upbringing suited me to, but I was always good at Potions. I have an… analytical mind. Becoming a Healer was as good an option as any other."

Silence reigned as Draco continued. But Potter was as bull-headed as ever, and rambled on delivering more details about himself than Draco cared to hear. 

“I always wanted to be an Auror,” he said. “Well, when I found out what they were, anyway. Living with the Dursleys didn’t exactly prepare me for the wizarding world. I almost miss it now…” His voice trailed off.

“I’m surprised you were prepared to take that sort of risk.” Draco could have cursed himself for speaking, but he had always been surprised by it. Potter and his martyr-tendencies had, after all, always made such a production of defending the greater good; he had been little short of stunned when it had been confirmed that he was entering the Auror service, in which he would daily face combat and thereby take the chance of setting the world by its heels again.

The perplexed expression on Potter’s face was priceless, but Draco didn’t add anything further. He continued his manipulations of the man’s lower limb, but Potter seemed to have found his voice again.

“Honestly, I hadn’t really considered it. There was so much going on. Ginny and I got together again—” He paused with a slight hitch to his breath when he spoke her name before continuing, “I spent some time with Ron and Hermione after the war, then we all went back for NEWTs… After that, Ron was going into Auror training, Kingsley was urging me to join – it seemed like the right thing to do.”

He’d missed the point, of course. Draco rolled his eyes inwardly.

“I didn’t mean the personal danger, Potter,” he drawled. “You do remember how you became master of the Elder Wand? By beating me. And I became its master by besting Dumbledore. You said when you decided to seal it back up in his tomb that you’d leave it there so its ownership would just fade away when you died your natural death; did you forget that it’d pass to the first person to beat you in a duel, natural death or not? I mean, you didn’t kill me, did you?” He shook his head. “Really, Potter. You’ve always been good, but I really am surprised that you were prepared to take the risk, however slight it may seem to you, that someone, somewhere, might just be a little quicker off the mark.”

Potter made a faint choking sound and began to flush a dull crimson.

“How many times have you been disarmed?” Draco inquired, affecting only the very mildest of curiosity, watching Potter’s expression shift. 

“Never,” he mumbled.

“I suppose we should all be grateful for that. Did you not think about the consequences?”

“I’ve never been much of a thinker,” Harry said. That, Draco reflected, is quite possibly the understatement of the millennium.

“Clearly,” Draco murmured, massaging Potter’s right foot, silence falling around them again. When he finished, Draco straightened, and asked, “What is Lovegood telling Mrs Tonks is ‘fine’?”

“She wants to bring Teddy over. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks,” Potter said, shifting into a more comfortable position.

“Teddy Lupin?”

“He’s my godson.”

Draco nodded. He was reluctant to forbid a visit, but he wondered what kind of effect a child wizard’s presence – and probable wild magic - in the house would have on Potter. He decided that it would be better to wait and monitor the situation than make a snap decision likely to vex his patient. 

He turned to leave when Potter called out, “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

Offering a simple nod, Draco left and prepared to get a little sleep before rising for the first time to check on Potter. Tomorrow he would meet with Mrs Prout and hopefully negotiate a solution to the ever-present problem of the housekeeping.

To Be Continued…


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: The Depth of Lucidity

 

Draco’s knuckles pounded dully against a worn wooden door. He took a moment to survey his surroundings, noticing the soft flicker of candlelight behind well-polished glass that gleamed in the fading sunlight. The breath of Mother Nature ruffled his hair in what anyone else may have taken as an affectionate caress, but not Draco. To him, it felt like a personal insult, a mark of the universe’s prejudice against Malfoys, and a sign that he should have never left Hightrees in the first place. He knocked again, harder, the wreath adorning the portal quivering with the vibrations, willing the woman to answer the door as he was frozen to the bone, and didn’t want to wait in the cold any longer than he already had. The brief click of the latch was Draco’s only warning before it opened, and a middle-aged woman with tightly bound black hair stood before him. She wasn’t terribly comely, but her face, soft with ignorance, quickly morphed into an expression of amiable anxiety that he remembered from St Mungo’s.

“H-Healer Malfoy, sir. So good to see you again. Please come in; you’ll catch your death out there,” she said, dusting some flour from her worn apron. The door closed behind them, and Draco looked around him, studying the house. He was pleased to note that even though old the furnishings were obviously well cared-for; the upholstery was threadbare but scrupulously clean, and the woodwork had been polished to a warm glow even though it bore the unmistakable scars of long years of daily use, and that reinforced his conviction that he had made a good decision in coming to her for assistance. Her dull brown eyes were wide, seemingly glazed over with awe as she fluttered, waiting for him to speak. 

“Thank you,” he said, stepping past her into the little house. The scent of baking filled the air, and Draco stood patiently, waiting for the woman to stop her nervous twitching. 

“This way, sir,” she said and led him to a small, neat sitting room; all of the furniture was well-used but had obviously received the meticulous attentions of a devoted housewife, and the walls were littered with pictures behind scrupulously clean glass in old frames polished to a warm glow. Draco took a seat on the sofa as the woman hovered across from him, clasping and unclasping her hands in front of her. “Would you like some tea, sir?”

“No, thank you,” Draco said, gesturing before him. “Please sit. I’ll only need a few moments of your time.”

Draco waited as the woman took a seat, her demeanour displaying a certain level of anxiety that surprised and irritated the wizard. Copies of the Daily Prophet littered the table before him, and an old novel was turned face down atop the pile. 

“I have a proposition for you, Mrs Prout. Since you keep up with the Prophet, I trust that you are aware of Harry Potter's indisposition.”

Mrs Prout nodded nervously, and he took a moment to consider his next words, choosing each one carefully before continuing, “You should also be aware that I am his resident Healer.”

“That’s true?” she exclaimed, her eyes growing larger with incredulity. “Goodness, I never—” She stopped when Draco cleared his throat slightly, indicating his desire to continue without interruption. 

“I'm going to have to ask you to promise absolute discretion about the next thing I tell you, Mrs Prout. It's completely confidential. Harry would be most upset if this were to become public knowledge.” Her expression of compassion displayed no knowledge of the difficulty with which Draco spoke Potter’s given name, for which he was grateful. 

“Oh, yes, of course, Mr Malfoy! I wouldn’t dream of—” She stopped again at Draco’s brief nod, her face flushing slightly. 

“Harry is in a very bad way. He requires a great deal of domestic assistance. Now, his condition is complicated to say the least, but it appears that magic - magic of any kind - is harmful to him. That includes food prepared by magic, laundry done by magic… all of the usual household charms and spells are potentially very harmful to him.”

Mrs Prout’s visage crumpled, evincing sympathy that was marginally lost on Draco as her hand came to her lips, and her eyes misted slightly, a softly whispered ‘oh, dear’ reaching Draco’s ears. 

He rolled his eyes inwardly. It was just Potter. The man wasn’t a god. 

“Now, obviously, under the circumstances, his house-elf cannot be allowed to cook, clean, launder… well, you get the idea. So we have been relying on services provided by a Muggle lady from his village.”

A sharp inhalation marked Mrs Prout’s surprise, and Draco wasted no time in continuing calmly. “I'm sure you will appreciate that this is far from ideal. For one thing, Mrs Hanby isn't able to come into the house, so unfortunately all of Harry's meals are reheated, and so forth. The situation simply isn't tenable. And that brings me to the reason for my call here today. You are a notable housewife, Mrs Prout. I have very fond recollections of the jam tarts you used to bring into St Mungo's for us when I was treating your son Roland.”

The woman began to burble, words of gratitude filling Draco’s ears. He allowed her a moment to gather herself, nodding in response to her thanks, but then went on. 

“So, naturally, when I was casting about for someone I could approach about this, you were the first person to come to mind,” he offered with a charming smile. 

“Th-thank you, sir,” she stammered.

“I know that… things can't have been easy for you financially, since your husband passed on. And now that your youngest children - and I do hope that they and the twins are in the good health I remember - are of school age, I realise that your resources must be a little strained; all the more so, since you have no family to support you. So I hope most sincerely that you'll be willing to consider my proposition, since it would benefit you as well as Harry,” he finished, watching her reactions carefully.

“It amounts to this: Harry needs domestic assistance, from a member of the wizarding community, but without the use of magic. I would like you to consider becoming his housekeeper, at least for a few months; you'd do his cooking and cleaning, his laundry… all the sorts of things you've been doing for your family, but for a grown man who won't have to be told to tidy his room, and who's unlikely to trail mud all over a floor you’ve just washed.” He said the last with a conspiratorial smile, and it earned him an appreciative flutter. 

Draco took her silence in his stride, seeing the wheels and cogs moving quickly behind her eyes. She hung on his every word.

“Of course, you'd be paid handsomely, both for your domestic services and for your discretion. I can arrange for your accounts at Malkin’s, Flourish and Blotts, Ollivanders, Eeylops, Quality Quidditch Supplies and so on to be cleared before the day is out, for example.”

“Oh, my children don't have owls and brooms, Mr Malfoy.” She smiled deprecatingly. 

He smiled again, his eyes twinkling slightly, and asked, “Would they like them?”

She blinked rapidly several times, apparently stunned. “I-I don’t know what to say. This is, this is…” she trailed off, completely floored. “But where would I live, Mr Malfoy? I know Mr Potter doesn't live anywhere hereabouts; I'd have heard if he was in driving distance.” 

“Oh, he isn't. But there's a place on the property that could be converted into a cottage for you. It wouldn't be anything grand, but…”

“Actually live on Mr Potter's property? Merlin!” She ended with an awed whisper.

“Of course board and lodging would be provided, in addition to the clearance of your children's school expenses and a modest salary for you, obviously,” Draco continued, offering her a genuine smile. “I would be most grateful, Mrs Prout. As would Harry, of course. And it would be a huge relief to Hermione and Ron, and Luna, of course, if they knew that someone was on hand to make sure Harry has three good meals every day…”

She exhaled and looked at Draco, finally nodding her head slowly. “I... I’d be honoured, sir; anything I can do to help. I couldn’t say no even if I wanted to. Mr Potter has done so much for the wizarding world. My husband—” She hesitated before inhaling to steady her nerves. “He would have been terribly proud to have his family help the man who helped so many.”

“I’m happy that you are willing to assist, Mrs Prout. There is just one other thing, though. You see, Harry is... very protective of his privacy, as I’m sure you’ll understand.” This was the only part of the conversation he had concerns about, and that was why he had left it until last. If she were already agreeable to the rest, and if he had played on her soft heart as well as he had expected to, she would have no objection to the means of protecting Potter’s privacy he intended to propose. She was looking at him in amiable inquiry and understanding, and he smiled apologetically. “And, of course, Hermione and Ron are quite fiercely protective of him. They take considerable measures to ensure that he’s left alone by those who might encroach on his good nature, or wish him ill.” She murmured soft sympathy. He rolled his eyes inwardly again. “So, while I’m very sorry to have to ask it of you, and I really do know that it’s not necessary, I hope you won’t be offended that I’ll have to ask you to swear an Unbreakable Vow not to, oh, disclose any privileged information you may learn about Harry’s condition and private circumstances, and so forth. Nothing too onerous,” he added quickly, with a disarming smile. “Just... a general undertaking to satisfy the people most concerned with Harry’s best interests of your discretion and good faith.” To his mixed triumph and relief, she nodded without hesitation. He smiled a third time, projecting all the warmth and appreciation he could muster. "Do you mind if I use your Floo? I need to call on Hermione to cast for the Unbreakable Vow.”

“Yes, of course; by all means,” she said. “The Floo powder is in the pot on the mantel, there. I’ll just go and see to the baking.” 

Draco stood and walked to the fireplace and spoke with Granger quickly, explaining briefly why her assistance was required. Moments later, Granger stepped out of a burst of green flames, and brushed the soot from her robes as she took in her surroundings. She eyed Draco suspiciously, but Mrs Prout forestalled any questions by speaking. 

“Mrs Granger, thank you so much for coming, for allowing me to help. I am so pleased that I can be of assistance to Mr Potter; he’s done so much, and we were so worried about him when the Prophet released the article about his health,” she said from the kitchen doorway. Draco hadn’t heard her return, but he doubted that she had heard the exchange between himself and Granger.

“Thank you, Mrs Prout. We are all grateful to you,” she said evenly, before turning a surprised and curious gaze toward Draco, who merely smiled briefly. “Shall we, then?” she asked, pulling her wand out.

After casting for the Unbreakable Vow, Granger pulled Draco aside before departing, having also done her duty as Potter’s Secret Keeper, and her words lingered in his thoughts as he subsequently Disapparated. “I’m impressed that you’ve gone to so much trouble to help Harry. I’m sorry, Malfoy; I’ve misjudged you a bit. I appreciate all you’ve done. Harry means a lot to me.”

He had regarded her steadily until she had looked away, stifling with the swiftness of long practice a swell of frustration at the familiar evidence that he was mistrusted at best and despised at worst. “It’s my job, Granger.”  
~*~*~*~ 

 

“Teddy, go on and say hello to Harry. He won’t bite,” Andromeda said, attempting to prise the purple-haired child from her leg. He whined slightly, appearing wholly afraid of his godfather. 

Harry smiled wistfully and reasoned, “It’s okay, Andromeda, really. He hasn’t ever seen a wheelchair before; I imagine he’s a bit frightened by it.” 

The front door opened, and Harry looked up, knowing that Malfoy would stride into the sitting room, his impeccable robes hanging perfectly, his face characteristically expressionless. 

And he was right. The wizard strode in, nodding slightly to his aunt, and took a seat across from them, crossing his long legs elegantly. 

“So it is true,” Andromeda said, looking toward Harry for confirmation. 

“It is,” Harry said, his gaze focussed on his lap. 

“We were quite worried, Harry. You should have called on me for assistance; we’re family. Hearing the news of your illness from the Prophet was unexpected, and I didn’t want to believe that my nephew had taken over your private care. What’s happened? Why didn’t you contact me?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry said, his cheeks burning under Andromeda’s scrutiny. “You have Teddy – I couldn’t ask you to drop everything for me.”

“Piffle! I know he’s a handful, but…” Her expression changed, her usual air of capable decision melting into something Harry couldn’t define yet which made her seem tired and older. She shook her head with a sigh. “You’re right. I understand, but you could have at least owled me. Teddy wouldn’t stop asking about you. ‘I miss Harry!’, ‘I want Harry to tell me a story!’” She smiled, but it quickly faded as she seemed to realise the trouble with that statement based on Teddy’s current reaction to Harry.

“It’s okay. He’s just scared,” Harry said. 

“Would you like some tea?” Andromeda asked, changing the subject.

“Sure,” he said, smiling only faintly. Harry still hadn’t looked up, wishing that Luna hadn’t left, wondering why Malfoy hadn’t gone to hide upstairs like he usually did when there was company. 

Andromeda began to stand, but Malfoy forestalled the movement. “I’ll take care of it, Aunt Andromeda.”

“Thank you, Draco,” she said, settling on the sofa again.

Malfoy left the room, and Andromeda continued with small talk, attempting to keep Harry engaged. Teddy clung to his grandmother’s leg, constantly shifting and fidgeting with the Harry Potter doll in his hand. Every time Harry saw the thing he wished Teddy wouldn’t carry it around with him, but he never spoke up. 

The sound of Malfoy’s footsteps alerted Harry to his return, and he looked up momentarily as the man moved gracefully to the table before Andromeda and Teddy, to deposit the tray. Teddy stopped making the doll fly through the air and looked at Malfoy intently. His hair colour changed to the same hue as the Healer’s, and, when next he peeped at Harry, Teddy’s eyes had become as grey as Draco’s, alight with childish mischief. 

“Ah, I see you have a Harry Potter doll,” Draco said. “You must really like your godfather.”

Teddy gave Malfoy an innocent look and said, “Yes,” before returning to playing with the toy. 

“Teddy, this is Draco; he’s your cousin,” Andromeda said. 

Teddy held out his small hand toward Malfoy, and the Healer took it, shaking it gravely and winning a giggle from the little boy. 

Harry sighed, irritated that Malfoy was able to attract Teddy’s attention when the child would barely even look in Harry’s direction, because he was in a damn wheelchair: it wasn’t fair. Teddy had never hesitated to give Harry hugs or sit on his lap for a story, or play on Harry’s broom, but now he stayed away, clinging to Andromeda, and it made his heart ache to see Malfoy getting the attention of the child he loved, especially when Malfoy probably didn’t even give a damn.

“Teddy, go sit with Harry,” Andromeda said again, but Harry ignored it and looked out the window, trying to ease the bands clenching his heart. 

“No,” Teddy whinged, looking at Harry with fear in his eyes.

“It’s fine,” Harry snapped, turning to look at them, but quickly averting his gaze. 

“Potter, why don’t you sit on the sofa and drink your tea before it gets cold?” Malfoy suggested neutrally, his gaze fixed. Harry could see him staring out of the corner of his eye, but refused to look at the Healer, fearing that he may lose his limp hold on his rising temper. “Potter?” Malfoy’s voice was growing increasingly irritating to Harry, so he nodded, and moved toward the sofa, lowering the bar so he could transfer easily from his chair.

As Harry moved, he felt a firm grip on his shoulders, having ignored the others in the room, and Malfoy eased him to the sofa, moving Harry’s chair closer to Teddy.

“I’m proud of you, Draco,” Andromeda said, a propos of nothing Harry could think of, and he inwardly rolled his eyes. 

“Whatever for, Aunt Andromeda?”

“For becoming a Healer and not following in your father’s footsteps,” she stated with a smile. “You’re a bright young man; I’m glad you didn’t let that go to waste.”

Malfoy nodded, his face unreadable to Harry, and took a seat once again. Teddy bounded toward him with the doll in hand, one of its arms flopping inelegantly against its closely shorn head. “Do you really think you should be carrying your godfather around by his ankle?” Malfoy asked the exuberant child. 

Teddy frowned adorably, and Harry felt his heart tighten again. “Harry's over there,” Teddy said, pointing to his godfather. “And he's bigger than me. I can't carry him around.” Teddy giggled and turned to Andromeda. 

Malfoy smiled faintly. “Oh, yes. How silly of me.”

Harry took a sip of tea, watching as Teddy played with a toy broom. He wished he could walk so he could play with his godson like he had used to. He would fly him around the garden on his broom, or run around in the garden, chasing Teddy as his hair colour changed like a Muggle traffic light until he was too tired to run any more. Harry missed that, and would have given anything to have it again. Harry sighed again, watching as Teddy changed his nose to look like Malfoy’s. 

The daylight faded quickly, and before Harry knew it, it was time for his cardboard-flavoured dinner. Teddy had slowly inched his way closer to the wheelchair, and Harry hoped that he would see that there was nothing wrong with it, that it was only used for him to get around since his damn legs were so bloody uncooperative. 

“Are you staying for dinner?” Harry asked Andromeda. Teddy jumped away from the chair when Harry spoke and ran to Malfoy, who looked mildly disgruntled, but nonetheless poked the child until he started giggling again. Harry glared at the Healer.

“No, I’m sorry, Harry. I promised Teddy we’d have fish fingers, and chocolate ice cream for dessert.”

“Right. Okay, maybe next time.”

“Of course, dear,” she said with a smile. “Teddy, get your things. It’s time for dinner.”

“Fish!” he called out happily, and Harry smiled despite his irritation. At least he had got to see his godson. 

“Dr— Malfoy, will you bring my chair?” Harry asked.

Malfoy calmly brought Harry’s chair back to him, and he stood with the Healer’s assistance, dropping gracelessly into it. It stung more than he wanted to admit, and he felt his heart break as Andromeda gave him a hug, but Teddy wrapped his small arms around Malfoy’s legs, smiling. He had always been on the receiving end of his godson’s joviality, and Malfoy’s disinterested acceptance of the boy had earned him affection that Harry wanted. 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Andromeda said, her eyes full of sympathy.

“It’s fine,” he said, trying to smile, but his mouth wouldn’t co-operate. He wanted to be normal again, and as he watched his godson disappear in the green flames, he closed his eyes and thought about everything that he would give up just to have his godson’s attention again. 

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, Potter,” Malfoy said, as the fire settled back to its normal golden-orange crackle. “Children are like cats: they go to the person who doesn't want them. Of course, it might have to do with the way fairytales depict princes and the like…”

“Yeah,” Harry said, not entirely certain he agreed with Malfoy. He had no choice but to accept things as they were, though, even if he didn’t like them. He was completely powerless.

After dinner, he went to bathe, and didn’t leave his room again. Malfoy arrived punctually as usual and Harry lay unresponsive, feeling detached from the situation. He wasn’t happy until he drifted off to sleep, darkness swallowing him until the image changed into a familiar nightmare.

Harry crouched low against a grey stone wall, his arms feeling heavy. He heard the voices of the Death Eaters on the other side of the wall, and his companion, whom he still couldn’t see, spoke clearly, calmly. Even with the voice though, his was still ill-at-ease with the situation. He felt a ghostly hand that hadn’t been there before pushing aside his damp fringe and he arched into its warmth, his vision still cloudy. His heart felt like it was going to tunnel through his chest, and he frantically looked around, trying to find a way out. The acrid stench of something Dark burned his nose as he inhaled, but the voice returned, calming him as he scrubbed at his blurry eyes.

As he stood, he felt exhilarated by the power of his legs when they were strong. He waited for the painful burn of a spell to rip through him, but it never came; instead, it was replaced by the warmth of a calming embrace, and the familiar voice drew him into a sort of comfort he hadn’t felt in ages. He wanted to see who held him, but there was nothing but a brilliance that hurt his sensitive eyes, and everything became vibrant as those ghostly hands soothed the fear from him. Contently, he accepted the reassuring caresses, feeling the briefest sense of acceptance.

 

To Be Continued…


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: The Shadows of Reality in Dreams

 

Harry’s aural sense was bombarded with Malfoy’s barking voice; he opened his eyes lazily, staring at the blond blearily through blurred slits, cursing the Healer with every invective his mind could muster in its sleep-fogged state. If he had his way, he’d sleep until the hail woke him, not when Malfoy chose, but Harry no longer had that luxury thanks to the illness that wracked his body. 

The seemingly endless irritation that had plagued him since Andromeda and Teddy had left two days earlier had all been directed at Malfoy. Quick snipes and being intentionally uncooperative were among the ways he was coping with his situation, only the physical strain of bowing to emotional outbursts was wearing him down. He wanted to hate Malfoy, but Harry was wise enough to know that his problems weren’t the Healer’s fault, even if blaming him was easier than simply trying to deal with the fact that it was sheer misfortune. 

Malfoy didn’t move from his location beside the bed, and Harry eased himself into a sitting position, still training his sights on the aristocratic man whose voice had finally dropped several decibels and back into a relatively comfortable amplitude rather than the sharp bark that had roused Harry from his sleep. 

“Wake up, Potter. You need to eat,” Malfoy drawled. Harry hated the bored tone that the man had adopted in the mornings. Everything about the Healer was impersonal, and it rankled that he couldn’t even show a modicum of understanding of Harry’s plight.

“What time is it?” Harry asked, reaching for his glasses. He realised belatedly that his tone may have been harsher than he had meant, but Malfoy didn’t react to his petulance.

“Half seven,” he replied, preparing to say something else when Harry interrupted him.

“Merlin, do you have to come in so early?” Harry groused, running his hands through his messy hair.

“I’ve been trying to wake you for nearly twenty minutes already, Potter. You should be used to this routine by now,” he replied sternly. “Now get up. I need to speak to you over breakfast.”

Harry grumbled incoherently as he fumbled from bed into his chair; Malfoy turned on his heel and left Harry to his morning ablutions. 

It was hell for Harry as he took a piss, trying desperately not to fall as his sleep-stiffened limbs refused to co-operate. He trembled with discomfort, creating a mess around the bowl, cursing as he reached for a floor cloth, and leant over to clean the mess as thoroughly as possible. He eased his pyjamas over his hips and dipped back into his chair, fighting his limbs with every movement, damning his body for its uselessness. After tossing the soiled cloth to the floor, Harry washed his hands and left the bathroom, making his way toward the dining room. 

Malfoy stood in the doorway, calculatingly maintaining his distance from Harry as the former Gryffindor stopped in front of his place setting, eying the contents of his plate warily. The eggs before him made his stomach turn, and he tried to hide his distaste, but Malfoy tutted, indicating that he had seen Harry’s repulsed reaction to the eggs and toast.

“Let me guess, you still don’t know what’s wrong with me?” Harry asked mordantly.

“Not for lack of trying, but, no, I don’t. But that isn’t why I wished to speak with you,” he said, moving closer to take a seat. Harry sighed and looked at the blond expectantly. A pale eyebrow rose in response, but Malfoy held his tongue, seemingly prepared to wait for Harry to stop scowling before continuing. 

Harry sighed again, picking up his fork, and began eating slowly. Malfoy took his cue and continued from where Harry had interrupted him. “I have taken the liberty of hiring a housekeeper as I don’t have the time to research your illness and handle the things which Kreacher is no longer able to do—”

“You did what? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Harry demanded, his temper flaring again. He had been losing control more and more frequently of late, and it incensed him that Malfoy hadn’t consulted him before hiring someone to enter his home – someone he didn’t even know.

“It’s a medical decision, Potter; I don’t need to discuss those with you. Unless you intend to argue that your extensive experience in the field caps the mere handful of years I have spent training for this?” The expression and tone were both withering. “Now, shall I explain what’s going to happen, or would you like to continue your tantrum?” 

“Unbelievable, Malfoy. This isn’t your home!” Potter yelled, dropping his fork, the metal clattering against the porcelain and table loudly in the silence of the house. 

“Clearly. If it were, I wouldn’t leave parcels spread across tables and piles of unanswered letters lying about until I felt like tidying them up. Having to leave you alone continually so that I can collect meals and laundry is hardly sensible given your propensity to behave like an idiot when you’re angry. I am also quite aware that you have a predilection for strictest privacy—” 

“Because I’m tired of everyone wanting something from me, you great git! If everyone knew where I lived, there’d be a queue on the bloody doorstep! I want an autograph; I think my brother’s been possessed by He Who Must Not Be Named; my son wants to be an Auror; my cat’s missing! It’s never-ending! I can’t help every damn person; I can’t reply to every damn owl that people send! They want someone who’s perfect, and I’m not perfect. I just want to know what’s wrong with me and stop having to explain myself to the bloody Wizengamot before I can take a piss!” Harry’s face was red at the end of his tirade, and his shoulders heaved up and down with the force of his breathing. “You haven’t got a bloody clue what it’s like, Malfoy. I don’t want to reply to every Merlin-be-damned letter, thanking people for their pity; I don’t want their pity. I want to be Harry, not the Boy Who Lived or the fucking Chosen One.”

“I see,” Malfoy replied, his tone completely incongruous with the flash of something that could have been surprise which crossed his face, but, once again, it didn’t last long, and the mask had been reconstructed, displaying the bored expression that Malfoy was so fond of. “Granger was aware of my decision to hire a housekeeper. In fact, she was the one who oversaw the Unbreakable Vow.” The blond regarded Harry evenly, fixing him with an unblinking look that made him slightly uncomfortable. “Mrs Prout is a Squib, and the best option we have. There will be no accidental magic. She will not be tempted simply to flick her wand at the washing up in the way that another witch would. She can’t betray your secrets, even if she wants to. The Muggle who provides your food and does your laundry at present isn’t able to come to the house, Kreacher can’t do it, and we’ve established that I can’t be coming and going and doing your cooking and housework every day, not and work on a diagnosis at the same time. Something had to be done. This is the best of the available options. She won’t even be underfoot. You have plenty of room in the garage that can be converted to a temporary living space while you require her services.”

“You don’t honestly expect her to sleep out there?” Harry demanded incredulously. “Malfoy, I grew up in a bloody cupboard under the stairs of my aunt and uncle’s house, and there is no fucking way I will permit you to allow someone to live out there. It’s dark, damp, and not fit for a Kneazle, never mind a human being!”

Something Harry couldn’t interpret flickered through Malfoy’s eyes, but the veil of cool indifference fell again so quickly he almost thought he had imagined it, and then the even voice was speaking again. “Kreacher and I are perfectly capable of arranging it into a small cottage. If she finds it disagreeable, I will give her the master bedroom and sleep on the sofa or in the study, or find accommodation somewhere else in the village. Suitable arrangements can be made, Potter.”

Harry sighed again, shoving his fingers through his messy hair. Looking at the Healer, he swallowed and tried to douse the smouldering anger that had taken him with a good blast of the water of reason. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Malfoy staying in the village was out of the question as far as Harry was concerned. The Healer had proven that he was competent, even if Harry was reluctant to admit it. Malfoy didn’t impose on Harry’s goodwill, either. He needed the Healer, and Harry wouldn’t be comfortable with him outside the house both because he recognised the extent of his debility, even if he didn’t really acknowledge it, and because he remembered the episode caused by the Pepper Imp in harrowing clarity. “Look, Malfoy – Draco, I appreciate what you’ve done – what you’re doing - but this is my home. It’s not like you’re going to have to be here much longer, so why hire someone? Is it really that important?”

“Yes, Potter, it is. You fail to understand that I’m doing the best I can with the resources available, and Mrs Prout’s assistance around here will allow me more time to cross-reference your symptoms with known illnesses. Your symptoms, apart from those I can attribute to your withdrawals, consist of inexplicable sensitivity to magic, depression, lower limb weakness, and lower limb muscle atrophy which may or may not arise from the disuse arising from the weakness. The depression could be related to the potion withdrawals, but it isn’t a normal withdrawal symptom, so I’m presuming that it isn’t. It could be a perfectly normal result of sudden debilitation, but it could equally easily be a freestanding condition in its own right, or another symptom of the underlying disorder. Or it could just be because you’re not sleeping well. I really have very little to go on. I’m stuck here with your whinging for the foreseeable future, and you may believe me when I say that I don’t like it any more than you do. You’re not the only one who had a life before this happened. I am doing everything in my power to make you as close to comfortable as you can be, and if you would stop complaining, it would make this entire situation more tolerable.”

Harry muttered something under his breath, but Malfoy didn’t ask him to repeat himself, and he wasn’t inclined to voice his objections any louder. He didn’t have the emotional fortitude required for a rebuttal.

It took a few moments for Harry to compose himself, but he made the attempt, realising that Malfoy could be right about the woman he had hired making things easier. Not being entirely ignorant, Harry knew that her arrival could earn Malfoy time to study enough to reach a breakthrough, which would allow him to walk again, sooner than the unacceptable six months Malfoy had mentioned, and that was the sort of opportunity that Harry couldn’t realistically pass up, not when the stakes were so high. He could still have many more years as an Auror and could start his life over again, could still have the family he had once wanted to have with Ginny, but with someone else, someone new, someone who saw him for himself: he could still have it all, but only if Malfoy succeeded in curing him. Whether it had been intentional or not, Malfoy had given Harry some hope that his life could be normal again, despite the lingering temptation to stop fighting altogether and just let the disease win.

He inhaled, knowing that his only option was to accept Mrs Prout’s arrival and assistance. But even so, Harry felt the dismal weight of everything bearing down on him. He wanted nothing more than to sleep until the storm had passed and it was safe to venture into the open once again. He wished that Malfoy understood his situation, but the wish was fleeting as old prejudices surfaced in his thoughts.

“When is she coming?” Harry asked, releasing a long breath. 

“I have asked Granger to bring her tomorrow, as that was the only time Granger was free.”

“Has she got any children?” Harry asked.

“Five. Twins Henry and Roland who are fourteen, Sarah who is sixteen, Lucy who is twelve, and Matilda who is eleven. They’re all at Hogwarts; they won’t be around to disturb you during term-time, and I’ll make sure they’re out of your way during the holidays.”

Fuck! Harry looked at the Healer, wanting to shout how much he hated him, but he clamped down on the urge and retrieved his fork, to recommence his automatic chewing of the unappetising food. 

“I’ll leave you to your breakfast,” Malfoy said, and walked away before Harry could swallow. Why, Harry thought, won’t Draco eat breakfast in here? As much as he hated to admit it to himself, he’d rather eat with Malfoy than alone…

When he had eaten as much of the cardboard-flavoured food as his stomach would tolerate, Harry went to the kitchen to see if Malfoy had in fact been taking meals alone in there. No signs of the Healer’s presence were in evidence, though, and Harry returned to his room, waiting for Malfoy. After his stretches, he settled comfortably into bed and closed his eyes, hoping that the illusory sense of safety he had felt during the night would have the mercy to find him during the day.  
~*~*~*~

 

Harry woke without being disturbed by miscellaneous noise or Malfoy’s snapping, so he thought it must have been early enough that he hadn’t slept through lunch yet. He was disappointed that the dreams he remembered had been only vague recollections of the years he had spent with Ginny, and tried to shake the feeling of loneliness that threatened to swallow him. He fought the recollection of what he had lost, shrugging it off as he went to the bathroom. 

When he was fully dressed again, Harry went to the dining room and began to look at the stack of letters that had accumulated since he had gone into seclusion. All of the materials needed for replies were sitting next to the pile, so Harry took it all to the dining table, since it was a larger surface, and began to plough through the missives, taking the time to read each one. He didn’t want to do it, but there was a part of him that still knew how much importance the senders placed on their letters and felt compelled to respond as a matter of basic courtesy, even if he lacked any real enthusiasm for the task.

He had just finished his fifth reply when Malfoy sauntered through, no doubt on his way to knock on Harry’s door to inform him that lunch was ready.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Harry tried to offer a smile, but his brain refused to allow the corners of his mouth to lift appropriately, so he settled for a nod of acknowledgement. He returned to the letters before him and chose another from the pile, undisturbed by his Healer’s retreating footsteps as he began the onerous process of responding to the good wishes and offer of assistance it contained. His hand began to cramp just as he was signing the reply some minutes later, though, and he dropped the quill, splattering droplets of ink on the page. 

“Shit,” he muttered, shaking his hand, trying to relax it. Malfoy entered the room with his lunch as he cradled his arm against his chest. 

“What happened?” the Healer asked calmly, placing the tray on the table.

“Nothing. It’s fine. I haven’t written much lately, and my hand cramped a bit.”

Without a word, Malfoy moved to where Harry sat and took his hand, massaging it until the grimace of discomfort disappeared from Harry’s face.

“Flex your fingers,” the Healer instructed, releasing Harry’s hand.

Harry complied, slowly bending his previously tense fingers, and rotated his wrist without any lingering discomfort. 

“Thanks.” Draco stood and his chair scraped the floor lightly as he pushed it back under the table. Assuming that the other man was leaving, Harry touched his hand in the same way Malfoy had, unconsciously following the same path. Malfoy cleared his throat, and as if he had been shocked by the obnoxious sound, Harry dropped his hands into his lap and looked at the other man. 

Silence stretched into a nearly suffocating tension. Harry knew that Malfoy wouldn’t leave until he made an attempt to eat, and Harry finally looked at his food. A hearty soup sat before him, and he couldn’t help inhaling the dull, soothing scent even if his body protested against the thought of actual ingestion. 

Malfoy was investigating the stack of letters that needed to be owled when Harry tried to take a first spoonful of the soup.

“What are these?” Malfoy asked, picking up the one Harry had splattered ink on.

“Replies to the people who keep writing to me,” Harry sighed. “If I don’t reply, they’ll think I’m being rude.” He scoffed, feeling angry that people expected so much of him, even when he didn’t have the heart or energy to give them what they wanted. “I’m just Harry…” he whispered. The responsibility he felt to the wizarding world was agonising in a way he couldn’t put into words, but he knew that he wanted desperately to be Harry, not the Boy Who Lived Twice.

“If it annoys you that much, Potter, why not put an end to it once and for all?” Malfoy said, suddenly. It wasn’t like him to say anything further after Harry had foolishly let his guard down and shared something that wasn’t relevant to the Healer’s job, and Harry looked at him in confusion.

“What, like giving The Quibbler another interview? I’m sure Luna’s father would do it, but—”

“No, Potter,” he interrupted, “I mean something authoritative. Write an autobiography. It’s not like you have anything better to do with your time.”

Draco’s words stung despite their truth, and Harry felt his heart constrict tightly. Maybe the Healer was right, but he could barely tend to his own needs, let alone bare his soul to the wizarding world in an attempt to make them understand his life. Something between frustration and despair welled up and crashed over him, and he lost the will to argue further. “Yeah, maybe,” he agreed as he eyed his bowl warily. He could still feel the Healer’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat.

“Eat. You need your strength,” the Healer said, replacing the parchment on the table.

Harry offered a half-hearted chuckle and said, “I’m sure I can’t do any worse to my body than the Dursleys did, Dr— Malfoy. They starved me most of the time, so it’s not like I’m not used to not eating.” He spooned some of the soup up and had another go. 

He swallowed mechanically, letting the liquid and vegetables settle before attempting another mouthful. His attention to it was hardly devoted, though, because he kept looking at his hand as though expecting to see some near-invisible mark where Draco’s hands had soothed the tension from him. It wasn’t until the other man spoke again that he remembered he was there. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Malfoy said, and left the room with his usual unruffled dignity. 

It took a while, but Harry forced more than half the soup down. Having eaten all he could, he went back to his room and remained in his chair, staring out of the window. His left hand unconsciously reached for the one that Malfoy had touched, and he traced the lines that only he could see, could sense, trying to remember the last time anyone had touched him. 

He ached for some physical contact, fearing that he had forgotten what it truly felt like to surrender to the sensation of another’s hands, lips, and body against his. Denying that he missed his erstwhile fiancée would have been a lie, and he didn’t try to delude himself by believing for one moment that things could ever be the same if he were to take her back; they couldn’t, not after Ginny had tossed everything they had worked to build into the bin like so many old editions of the Prophet.

He envied Ron and Hermione because they had something that Harry craved with every fibre of his being: a family. True enough they were his family, but not in the same way. They had one another, shared one another, in a way that Harry could never be part of. No, they were his family, but they were also bound to one another in a way that Harry could never be. 

It wasn’t until a brisk knock drew Harry from his thoughts that he realised he had been sitting alone most of the afternoon yearning for something he had lost.   
~*~*~*~

 

Long after dinner, when Harry was confident that Malfoy would have fallen asleep and it was safe to explore his neglected desires, he lay in bed with his eyes closed, focussed on what it felt like to have someone touch him the way he had been touched in his dreams the past few nights. He unbuttoned his shirt and ran the tips of his fingers over his chest, imagining that his hands were the same ones that had saved him from another torturous memory. 

He teased his nipples, letting the sensations move through him. Something was lacking, though, and he felt like he was numb, but he refused to give up, imagining lips and a soft, eager tongue joining the hands skimming over him. 

In his imagination, the exquisite tease of teeth against his neck left his body shivering from sheer pleasure. He wanted to feel that again, wanted to recapture not just remember what it felt like to be intimate with another person; his fantasy grew more detailed as he forced his pyjamas to his knees as quickly as his body would allow. 

He imagined the wet warmth of a tongue as it slid lovingly over his balls, his hand physically cupping them, and a faint shiver of delight spread through his neglected body. He moved his hand to his flaccid cock and drew the foreskin back, massaging the head with slow swipes, feeling only brief ripples of pleasure as the image in his mind’s eye changed once again. 

Pale lips encircled his cock, and a hot, slick tongue darted against him, eliciting a soft moan, even if he couldn’t feel each touch as much as he would have liked. Harry was determined to surrender to the sensations that his mind and body were allowing. 

He stroked himself gently, allowing his mind to centre on his body’s reactions to physical intimacy, and even if there was no clear picture of who was starring in his private show, he was enjoying it. 

His thoughts continued to switch around, images increasing in intensity as his need for release grew within him. But his cock wasn’t responding to the stimulation, and, rather than give up, still playing and replaying every erotic picture he could conjure, he reached across his bedside table, his fingers groping for the jar of whatever oily unguent Malfoy used to massage his limbs in the evenings. 

His fingers searched, his hand passing over the carafe of water that Malfoy had left for him in case he got thirsty during the night, but the damn’ stuff might as well have been in another country for all the evidence he could find of its presence. He didn’t give up, though, and as soon as his fingers touched the textured edge of the jar, he clamped a shaking hand around it and pulled it to him, accidentally catching the carafe. It toppled to the surface, catching the glass that stood beside it, with a loud, tinkling thud that Harry tried to silence to no avail. The glass skittered to the edge of the bedside table, and then fell to the floor with a heavy thump, dumping cold, wet droplets all over the bed and carpet. Harry didn’t care about the noise; he had found what he wanted, and he unscrewed the lid, scooping a little of the slippery stuff into his hand before replacing jar and lid on the table. 

The substance was cool, but he didn’t care; it was heavy and smooth, and he hoped that the enriched sensation would help. His slicked hand moved hastily to his cock, and he exhaled happily as he stroked himself, relishing the contact as though he’d never been touched before. 

Harry was lost to his fantasy. The ghostly hands that soothed his body made his skin rise, and he groaned softly, unaware of anything else around him. 

The sound of the bedroom door hitting the wall jarred Harry from his waking dream, and his heart seemed to stutter with the surprise. He took a breath, looking up, and Malfoy stood in the opening, his hair wet and plastered to his head, a thin dressing gown that was dark with wet spots flung around his tall, slender frame. Harry was struck speechless, and the man before him spoke in a tone that made Harry cringe.

“What the hell is going on?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Harry thought, trying to figure out a decent explanation for his pyjamas to be pooled at his knees, his hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. 

“Are you hurt?” the Healer asked, moving towards the bed as Harry tried to roll over to preserve the tiny shred of dignity that he hoped still remained to him. 

When he didn’t answer immediately, Malfoy asked again, “Are you hurt?” His tone was unwontedly sharp, jarring Harry in a way that he didn’t understand. 

Harry was still dumbstruck. He didn’t know what to say. If he had walked into a room to find a man still pressing a hand to his groin with pyjamas around his knees, Harry thought, he wouldn’t need to ask, because to his mind it couldn’t be more bloody obvious what had just been interrupted. 

“Potter?” the blond snapped, and Harry finally broke, his words coming fast, all of them running together.

“N-no, I’m fine.” Distracted by Malfoy’s words, Harry finally recognised the cold water sliding across his skin, making his body feel glued to the bedding. 

“What happened? Why is the bed wet?”

Harry’s face felt incredibly hot as the Healer stood over him, looking around. He finally spotted the carafe and picked it up, and thumbed the button on the lamp on the bedside table. Harry squinted as the light flared to life, and he looked, really looked, at Malfoy for the first time in as many days. 

The quick movements had shifted his dressing gown, and Harry could see the livid marks that looked like jagged cuts spanning the length of his otherwise perfect chest. There were at least three lines; Harry knew immediately what they were from, and he felt his heart clench painfully as he remembered that he had caused those ugly marks on Malfoy’s pale skin. 

“Let’s get you up,” Malfoy said, helping Harry sit up. “What were you doing?” he queried, scrutinising Harry as he helped him from the bed. 

Their bodies pressed together, and the feel of Malfoy’s wet robe tickled Harry’s skin with a prickling discomfort that made him twitch with the urge to pull away from the other man, or even throw himself to the floor in favour of allowing Malfoy to continue touching him. 

He would rather have taken on a Nundu single-handed than admit what he had been doing, but he knew that Malfoy knew, and knowing that, he couldn’t pretend otherwise. The tatters of his dignity were beyond salvaging. 

“If you must know,” Harry began, “I was trying to have one off at the wrist.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, but his demeanour never changed beyond that, although Harry felt the subtle shifts in his muscles as they tensed and relaxed under his grip. He was nearly naked, his clothes pooled at his feet, with Malfoy in only a thin robe, and the stirring of the other man’s hardness pressing into Harry’s hip. Knowing how Malfoy was reacting to him only made his blush deepen, and he didn’t feel remotely comfortable until he was helped into his chair and Malfoy stepped away to assess the damage done.

“It's nothing to be embarrassed about, Potter. You're used to having a fiancée in your bed, and now she's gone. Your sex drive has to go somewhere, after all, and masturbation is the usual substitute when partners are lacking.”

Without missing a beat, Malfoy stripped the wet bedding, and Harry watched the other man’s oddly graceful movements: the Healer moved like a dancer, every bend and twist precise and fluid, unlike Harry. As Malfoy changed the sheets, Harry began to fulminate on the inherent unfairness of it all and reflect gloomily that he must be missing his mobility if he had fallen to the indignity of noticing the way the other man moved. But Malfoy’s voice broke into Harry’s thoughts.

“If anything, it’s a positive sign that you even have a sex drive, you know,” he drawled.

Harry’s blush deepened and he snapped, “Yeah, but it's probably a less positive sign that I couldn't get it up!” He wanted to curse himself for unguardedly letting the bitter, humiliating truth slip as soon as the words had crossed his lips. Malfoy really didn’t need to know that, did he?

“Ah,” he said, with a mildness that surprised Harry, “that’s probably due to your depression. Give it time.”

Harry had no words, so said nothing else, lest he somehow make the situation even more unbearable. Once the bedding had been replaced and everything was set to rights, Malfoy knelt before Harry and pulled his remaining clothing off, and fetched dry clothes from the drawer in which they resided. Malfoy must, Harry realised, have been putting his clean laundry away for him while he was out of his bedroom – just like he must have been stripping and making the bed ever since he had decided that Kreacher’s magic was too much of a risk. When Malfoy helped Harry into his pyjamas, Harry couldn’t help but watch the other man, who clinically ignored Harry’s nudity.

Settled in bed again, Harry watched Malfoy leave without saying a word, and closed his eyes, wishing that he could make the day never have happened. He slipped into his dreams easily enough, and they sustained him. The warmth that had engulfed him previous nights returned, and he soaked it up with every pore, relishing it, until the dream changed. 

A head of white-blond hair bobbed eagerly in Harry’s lap, tasting him, drawing out the sensations that he had been missing from his body. His core felt like a huge knot had begun to form, tangling his insides in a way he’d never experienced. It was hot, but Harry barely noticed as everything blurred when he came, crying out a name that felt unfamiliar, but somehow close. And as the man continued to taste his come, Harry finally realised who was kneeling before him. 

The man between his legs didn’t have to look up, but he did, and his grey eyes, alight with a rippling fire stared at him in a way he’d never seen before. It felt fucking fantastic as his body unwound, taking the pleasure as it was given, and even if it was Malfoy, no, Draco in his dream, it didn’t matter. It stirred something within him that he couldn’t identify, and he liked it; he would never have considered it, in his conscious mind, but he could actually see himself enjoying the feel of those pale lips on him for real. Draco looked at him and said his name in a way that he never thought he’d hear from the other man, and, cautiously, Harry reached for the blond, pulling him close enough that their lips met in a brief kiss which left Harry reeling. 

Draco pulled away, but he said Harry’s name again, more urgently this time, and Harry reluctantly opened his eyes.

The blurred image of the real Malfoy hovering over him greeted him, and he felt the sticky coolness of dried semen between his legs. He groaned and tried to sit up, belatedly realising that his cock was hard, and his body ached with the need to touch and be touched in return. Malfoy was saying something, but Harry could barely hear him as he squirmed to get away from the evidence of his dream. His face felt hot, so he got out of bed slowly with Malfoy helping, and went to take a bath, more confused than he had ever been about anything in his life.

To Be Continued…


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: The Imperfections Unseen

 

Despite Draco’s resolve not to begin sifting through the memories of his and Potter’s past, he found himself doing it anyway, and the more he tried to force his mind back to more relevant concerns, the more it wandered. Intensely frustrated, he abandoned his attempt to narrow the range of possible explanations for Potter’s malady and grudgingly gave way to the compulsion to contemplate the latest revelation.

It was just like Potter, to Draco’s mind, to make some wild, dramatic declaration in the heat of the moment, and he reflected that he should have been expecting it for days. At school, it would have been a grand gesture, some hare-brained escapade that would have got anybody else killed or expelled – and he ruthlessly quashed the very vivid recollection of Potter flouting Hooch’s prohibition against going up on a broom in the first year, getting caught by none other than Martinet McGonagall, and getting rewarded with a place on the Quidditch team instead of the threatened expulsion – but his patient was hardly in any condition to do anything of that sort, so it had had to be a verbal statement. He rolled his eyes, wryly acknowledging that he should have expected it to be something in that vein, too. Harry Potter couldn’t just have had an unremarkable childhood with that lamentable Muggle aunt and her family, no; naturally he had to have been the victim of child abuse. 

He probably doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, Draco told himself as he slid into his robes. As if Dumbledore would have let his precious Golden Gryffindor spend his formative years in neglect and abuse, and sent him back every summer for more of it. The Calming Draught withdrawal must be hitting him harder than I thought. That or I need to add minor psychosis and/or escalation from omission to active duplicity to the list of symptoms.

He buttoned his robes methodically, and found himself frowning, though. Potter hadn’t appeared to be lying, and years of facing varying degrees of untruthfulness from his patients - not to mention his solid background as a Slytherin and lifelong familiarity with his father’s pragmatic attitude to the truth – had taught him to be very, very good at detecting lies, half-truths and clever ambiguities. Almost as good at detecting them, in fact, as he was at employing them. He paused in the act of straightening his collar, tilting his head fractionally to one side. There had been no indication at all that Potter had been attempting to mislead him. And for all Potter was, admittedly probably in all innocence, one of nature’s prima donnas, it would have been uncharacteristic for him to reach for outright deceit, particularly given that he already had Draco’s undivided attention. And he had been so vehement, too, about his desire to be left alone.... 

Draco scoffed, reminding himself that Potter had spent most of their years in school swearing that he hated the attention and yet nonetheless invariably and inevitably contriving to get it squarely focussed on himself, and that he couldn’t have changed that much. Could he? A quicksilver flash of some odd unease assailed Draco at that: he of all people should have been the last man in the world to doubt someone’s capacity to change.

He found himself struggling unenthusiastically with the idea that Potter’s childhood home life had been less than perfect, and that he genuinely didn’t like the adulation that his ‘fan club’ affirmed with its offerings of letters, gifts, and whatever else those sealed parchments and packages contained. 

His jaw ached with tension as he looked in the garden below the bedroom, his thoughts racing faster than a Snitch evading a Seeker’s grip. No, Potter couldn’t be telling the truth, if for no other reason than that it would make Dumbledore’s obvious favouritism through school so totally illogical and self-contradictory as to verge on the completely lunatic; and though the old man had been known for many things, wild inconsistency had never actually been among them.

But there was a niggling voice in the back of Draco’s mind that told him to analyse Potter’s words now, not his recollections of years past and the behaviour of an elderly eccentric. When he had met Potter all those years ago in Madam Malkin’s shop, cold impartiality told him that he had seen a scrawny boy with broken spectacles being herded about Diagon Alley by the half-giant Hagrid. He could be certain of that, and it definitely did not accord with any image of a loving family: even Muggle couples escorted their inexplicably magical children to Diagon Alley. Granger’s parents certainly had. He also remembered that Potter never left the school over the holidays, apart from the summer holidays, and that didn’t tally with a blissful home life, either. If his family had kept him in a cupboard under the stairs, then what kind of people were they? 

He knew they were Muggles, and had for some time, having both perused Potter’s medical records at length and spoken at more length than he would really have liked to Granger and Lovegood; but knowing that they were Muggles told him very little. At least, very little that he could trust, being very well aware that the understanding of what it meant to be a Muggle that had been drilled into him from childhood was probably less than perfectly reliable to say the least. Keeping a child in a cupboard under the stairs was the sort of thing that he would have had no trouble accepting as Muggle behaviour in his childhood, but he was consciously less willing to believe it as an adult. Even if it’s true, it’s immaterial. He’s never behaved like a victim of abuse, and he certainly isn’t now. So to whatever degree it may or may not be based in fact rather than fantasy, it’s irrelevant and I can ignore it. Draco thought, trying to shift his focus back to the task at hand. But his curiosity was piqued in a way he couldn’t define, even though his instinct was to dismiss it as a natural drive to know his enemy. But Potter wasn’t his enemy any more; he was his patient – a damned irritating one, at that. 

Draco watched Potter as he slept for a moment, noting details about the way the man slept. He didn’t snore, and his face appeared gaunt, which was a sudden and unwelcome reminder of the boy from Hogwarts. Potter still wasn’t eating the way he should, but until his system was used to life without potions, there was nothing Draco could do about that: force-feeding, which he wouldn’t be afraid to do if necessary, unpleasant as it was, would only make Potter worse while his body was still re-learning how to interpret its needs. 

It still took Draco nearly twenty minutes to wake Potter, but once he was up, he was silent. Draco didn’t miss the prominent erection, and nor did he miss the wet fabric at Potter’s groin as he sat in the chair. Even if he hadn’t been paying attention, Potter’s dropping his hands into his lap would have been obvious enough. It was a good thing that Potter’s sex drive seemed to have returned, though. He was adjusting to his circumstances, and Draco hoped that meant less hassle in future. 

Having got his patient settled for breakfast, Draco returned to the kitchen to eat his own meal. Tidying the kitchen and washing the dishes didn’t take long, and he went about the remainder of the morning routine.

Through Potter’s stretches, Draco was distracted by his thoughts, but he still maintained his professional integrity by not neglecting his patient’s needs. Thankfully, Potter seemed a bit tight-lipped after his incident the night before, and Draco was grateful that Potter’s blush was more prominent than his grating voice that morning. 

Finished with Potter’s physiotherapy, Draco walked out to the garage and called Kreacher. Mrs Prout would be arriving soon, and in a final attempt to distract himself from the conjecture still occupying his mind, Draco began making adjustments to the space for the new housekeeper. 

While he had told Potter that he would surrender the master bedroom to Mrs Prout, Draco knew that she wouldn’t want that, and the adjustments to the garage would be more than sufficient for the time being. If she had any problems with the space, she would be reluctant to voice them; Draco was sure of that. Not that he expected any problems: the woman was plainly used to living in small quarters and without the accoutrements that he personally found indispensable for his personal comfort. He was perfectly confident that such accommodations as he and the house-elf were able to manufacture would meet with her approval.  
~*~*~*~

 

Lunchtime arrived quickly, which meant Mrs Prout would be arriving with Granger soon, so Draco settled Potter for lunch, and waited for them to arrive in the sitting room. 

He had only just taken a seat when the front door opened, and Granger stepped through with Mrs Prout and a large, badly-wrapped Christmas tree in tow. The woman’s eyes were wide with wonder as she looked upon Potter’s abode, and he greeted her with the same charm he had deployed when he had met her at her home before he took her to meet Potter in the conservatory. 

“Harry,” he said, hoping that the awkwardness in which he spoke the other man’s name went unnoticed, “this is Mrs Prout. She will be your housekeeper while you require my services as a Healer.”

Potter’s face wrinkled in surprise, but he moved from behind the table and greeted Mrs Prout amiably enough. They shook hands, and Draco watched as Potter looked down, rather than at Mrs Prout. 

“Mr Potter, I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done,” she said, flustered. “My husband— If he were still alive, he’d be honoured to know that I was helping take care of you.”

“Please, call me Harry,” Potter replied, his face red with embarrassment. Draco wondered for a moment if he said that to everyone, or he if he was just ingratiating himself with Mrs Prout. Draco decided that he probably said it to everyone: either he was completely guileless and unassuming, and therefore the sort to be uncomfortable addressed by title; or he was a fairly skilled manipulator, consciously or otherwise, and therefore choosing to appear to be guileless and unassuming. Draco remained undecided on that point. Everything he’d seen of this Potter contradicted most of what he had believed all the way through school, one way or another. “And thank you. Your help is greatly appreciated,” he said. 

“Would you like some lunch, Mrs Prout?” Granger asked.

“Oh, no, I don’t want to impose. If someone could show me to my room, I’ll just go and get settled. I don’t want to bother Mr Po— Harry while he eats.”

“It’s fine, Mrs Prout,” Harry said.

“Please, call me Eleanor.”

“Right, Eleanor; it’s fine. Really.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she gushed. “Sir?” She turned and faced Draco, expectation clear in her wide eyes.

“This way, Mrs Prout,” Draco said, leading her towards the back door, from which the cottage which had until that morning been Potter’s unused garage was most easily accessible. 

“I want to thank you, sir, for everything you’ve done. I received word yesterday that my accounts at Madam Malkin’s, Flourish and Blotts', and Ollivander’s had been cleared. I really am most grateful.”

Draco smiled, and opened the door to usher Mrs Prout across the intervening space to her temporary residence. “It was nothing, Mrs Prout. I’m just doing my job.”

“It looks to be a little more than that, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. Most people wouldn’t go this far for a patient.”  
~*~*~*~

 

After Draco had taken Mrs Prout to the garage-cottage so she could settle in, Harry left for the conservatory to work on a puzzle while Hermione and the Healer put the Christmas tree up in the sitting room. 

He sighed, dumping the box onto the table, listening to each piece clatter dully. Listlessly, he dropped his hands into his lap and stared at the scattered pieces, feeling much like them, as he thought about the previous night and what Malfoy had witnessed. 

The confusion that had wracked him as he bathed earlier continued to weigh heavily on him as he heard Hermione directing Malfoy as though he were a child. 

To say that his mind’s wandering bothered him was an understatement. It didn’t bother him because it was a man, though he had never really thought about being with a man, but it bothered him because it was Malfoy. Granted, the Healer had shown some capacity for compassion, and he had also shown that he was capable in his chosen vocation, but he was still cold, distant – a firm mask hiding the real man who was still a complete mystery to Harry. 

What happened to him, thought Harry, that could make him so unlike the boy from Hogwarts? He wasn’t sure he would ever know, but that didn’t quash the curiosity that bubbled within him. He almost preferred the haughty, spoilt prat to this new man. At least he knew where he stood with the boy from Hogwarts; now he was guessing whether this Draco would rather hex him than be saddled with the painful task of providing care for a crippled Saviour. 

He had, he remembered, been obsessed with the blond’s actions all through his sixth year at Hogwarts, and as his dream from the previous night flashed in his mind’s eye, he realised that maybe he still felt some of that lingering obsession now. Maybe it was that Malfoy was so damned cold and distant that made him want to crack the perfect veneer that always covered Malfoy’s face except when Harry had done something incredibly stupid.

As rain began to pelt the windows of the conservatory, Harry looked up, and sighed heavily. There was so much going on – so much to think about – and he found himself at a loss how to deal with it all. The constant tapping against the glass drowned the voices in the other room, and Harry closed his eyes, remembering what it felt like to walk, to stand, to run, offering a silent promise to whatever powers were listening that he would do anything to have that feeling of control again, to feel the freedom of mobility. 

He’d give up everything he’d achieved to feel that again, and he opened his eyes, releasing a long sigh. 

Malfoy’s voice penetrated his reverie, and he sat, listening to the smooth drawl, remembering the way the Healer had said his name in the dream the previous night. Harry wondered if something was wrong with him. Why else would he be fantasising about Draco? He had to be delusional, that was the only explanation for his sudden curiosity about the other man. Everyone in the wizarding world knew of Malfoy’s orientation and his desire for attractive men; the Prophet had made it a point to show as many photos of him with the man Harry presumed to be his current paramour. Some Beauxbatons beauty who Harry thought looked more like a woman than a man, but he really—

His thoughts ended with the press of soft lips against his temple, and he looked up, startled to see a flash of fair hair. He started in surprise, and Luna stood before him with a dreamy smile. “Hello, Harry,” she said, hopping toward the chair across from him. 

He had to be going crazy; the first sign of those pale locks had made him see Malfoy again, and he knew that Malfoy wouldn’t have just given him a kiss, even if that had been part of his dream the previous night.

“Luna,” he said with a soft smile, “I didn’t know you were coming over today.” 

“Hermione asked me to keep you company while she helped Draco with the Christmas tree. I had to check it for a Crumple Horned Snorkack before she could put it up, though.” 

“Right,” he said, slightly amused by Luna’s quirks. She picked up one of the pieces of the puzzle on the table and began turning it around, studying it as though it held some secret only she could see, and looked at him with her head tilted to the side.

“How are you sleeping?” she inquired dreamily.

“Fine,” he said, blushing slightly. “I’ve been… having weird dreams lately – not nightmares, but weird dreams. I’m fine, though.”

She smiled slowly and looked up at the falling rain through the panes of glass and said, “I have dreams about having sex with Draco, too.”

“L-L-Luna!” he sputtered. Harry couldn’t believe what she’d just said. His face flushed a bright crimson, and she continued smiling. 

Harry wondered how she had known, but, then again, Luna had always had a knack for seeing things that no one else could, and he wondered if she was a Seer, or if she was making wild guesses, hoping she was right. He doubted it was the latter, as Luna was a brilliant witch, even if a bit eccentric. 

“What?” she asked bewildered. “Of course you’d have erotic dreams about him. He’s beautiful… And he’s in your room every night. It’s only natural, Harry.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry lied unconvincingly. He looked around to make sure that Draco hadn’t suddenly appeared in the room, categorically uneasy with the way Luna didn’t seem to care whether he heard her announcement or not.

“It’s perfectly natural. Homosexual love is just as beautiful and precious as heterosexual love,” she said knowingly. “Besides, Professor Dumbledore was in love with Grindelwald.”

Harry flushed and murmured, “That isn’t the point.”

“Oh, I know you don’t love him, but there’s nothing wrong with what you’re feeling. It will make sense in time.”

Harry didn’t even know what he was feeling, so how Luna could possibly understand it, he couldn’t fathom. Everything was increasingly confusing to him, and he hated that because it was just another area of his life where he had lost all control, seemingly moving at the speed of everyone else around him, and he wasn’t used to it, or comfortable with it in the least.

He flushed again, realising that he really wasn’t certain about anything, and that scared him; he was, he realised, the passenger in his life now, not the pilot. 

Harry didn’t want to think about it any more – at least not then. He had enough to worry about.

“Where did you hear that, anyway? About Dumbledore, I mean,” Harry asked, trying to steer the direction of the conversation. 

“It’s obvious,” she stated matter-of-factly. 

Harry wasn’t so sure about that, but he was curious as to whether Luna had ever had any fantasies about other women. “Luna…” he began slowly, “have you ever…?” It wasn’t the thought of two men that bothered him, but Malfoy was an entirely different thing. He’d hated him for so long that liking him was playing awful tricks with his psyche: delusions had to be a symptom of the withdrawals that the Healer had mentioned; otherwise, he might be going barmy. 

“I always fancied the Patil twins, and Cho,” she said, smiling lopsidedly.

“Did you ever…?”

“Of course. Friends do things like that for one another.”

“I’ve never—” Harry tried, but she cut him off. He’d never entertained thoughts of having anything sexual with Ron; it just felt completely wrong to contemplate any possibility of him and his best mate doing those… things. Not that he cared what others did, but he couldn’t see himself kissing Ron, or touching Ron in the same ways he had Ginny, and he damned well couldn’t see Ron ever doing to him what Draco had in his dream the previous night.

“If you ever get tired of dreams, I don’t mind helping,” she said. 

“N-no thanks, Luna.” 

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged. “Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?” she inquired, completely changing the subject. “I got you something really good this year.”

Harry chuckled slightly, still mildly embarrassed by their last exchange, but he was used to going with the ebb and flow of Luna’s conversational style. “No, I was going to ask you to pick some things up for me,” he said. “But it doesn’t seem right that Dr— Malfoy won’t have anything…”

“Why not get him something?” 

“What do you buy for the bloke who can get anything?” Harry asked. 

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. I send him something every year.”

Harry was surprised that Luna sent a gift to Malfoy every Christmas, particularly since he was perfectly aware that they weren’t terribly close. “What do you send him?”

Luna looked at Harry if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I send leftovers from dinner.” 

“Why?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Because he smuggled leftovers to me and Mr Ollivander during the war after we had been captured. Draco sends breakfast back every morning; it’s very nice, you know.”

It seemed that the number of surprises Harry was going to find sprung on him about Malfoy was limitless. But then he realised that he really didn’t know much about what his friends had gone through during the war. And maybe that was down to selfishness; he’d never asked them, after all. 

“I wrote the list of what I need earlier, and Hermione can get you some money from my vault,” Harry said, not prepared to spare any more thoughts for Malfoy than he already had. He had had enough surprises for one day.

“Why don’t you go? You should get out of the house, come with me.”

Harry was about to reply, ready to give Luna any excuse to avoid being seen in public, but he was saved from having to prevaricate when Malfoy’s drawl sounded from the doorway.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Lovegood.”

Harry froze and blinked a few times, trying to decipher the words he’d just heard. That couldn’t be right; Malfoy had just given Harry another reason to be grateful to him, and it only added to his confusion. 

There never seemed to be enough time to sift through all of the warring emotions before something else Malfoy did threw Harry in some way, once again changing the way he defined the man.

Luna replied, but Harry ignored it, suddenly unable to concentrate. His fingertips brushed his forehead unconsciously, and he closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness made everything around him seem too bright, too loud, and too close.

“Harry? Are you okay?” Luna asked, worry in her eyes.

“Yeah, fine. Just tired,” he said. He didn’t look up to see if Malfoy was still there; Harry knew he was. There was no reason for him to wait for whatever Malfoy had come to say, so he said, “I’m going to lie down for a bit,” and left, easing past the Healer. 

Luna started to follow him, but Harry stopped and turned to look at her for a moment, his face slightly pale. “Luna, there’s a list on the table there. Can you take care of it for me?”

“Sure, Harry,” she replied.

“Thanks,” he said and went to his room. He eased himself into bed and barely remembered Malfoy checking his status before leaving him to rest. He hoped that whatever had caused his episode was only temporary, and didn’t mean he was getting worse.  
~*~*~*~

 

The sun was dipping below the horizon as Harry turned over, preparing to get up. He knew it was before dinner, and he wasn’t in any hurry to sit alone for another meal, so he eased himself out of bed and went to the bathroom. The house seemed oddly quiet, so he opened the bedroom door, wanting to be near someone. He felt oddly self-conscious as he leaned into the hall and looked around as though he was a stranger in his own house. 

Harry was tempted to go back to bed, but he felt better than he had earlier, and knew that Draco would be coming in soon to tell him dinner was ready. He supposed that he could finish more replies to the people who had taken time to write to him, but he didn’t feel up to it. 

The silence was unnerving, suddenly punctuated by the delicate crash of glass, followed by Malfoy muttering curses. Curious, Harry wheeled himself to the sitting room and watched Malfoy point his wand at something and cast a hasty Reparo. From where he was, Harry couldn’t see what had broken, but when Malfoy lifted another bauble from the box in front of him, Harry realised that was what had shattered.

He knew it seemed pointless, but he spoke before is brain could catch up and stop him from making a fool of himself. “Everything okay?”

Malfoy fixed him with a glare that said ‘does it sound like everything is okay?’ His tone wasn’t nearly as biting as Harry might have expected it to be when he replied flatly, “Brilliant, Potter.”

“What happened?” Harry asked, his voice still hoarse from sleep. 

“I wasn’t concentrating,” he replied sourly.

Harry looked at him warily, and a smile to match the Healer’s tone graced his features, as he elaborated, “It hasn’t worked the same since you had it,” he said holding his wand before him. “If I’m not concentrating, spells tend to misfire.”

“Oh,” Harry said stupidly, looking at Draco thoughtfully. 

“You should go back to your room. I don’t want this thing to misfire while you’re around; it could kill you,” the blond said with an expression that Harry didn’t quite understand. “I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”

“Okay…”

Harry left, but not without reluctance. He didn’t want to be alone again, but he really didn’t have any other choice.

As he sat waiting for Malfoy to inform of dinner so he could go through the motions, he thought about what Luna had said about Malfoy, how she had sent him a gift every year, and how he should get the man something. And then it hit him. He knew exactly what to get Malfoy for Christmas, and he went to the conservatory to compose a letter to someone he never thought he would ever be asking for a favour.  
~*~*~*~

 

As Harry lay in bed waiting for the Healer, he was anxious. He had spent the majority of the afternoon wondering whether Draco had overheard him during the night, and slightly embarrassed by his own discovery that morning that he had in fact seemed to regain some of his sex drive. His face burned hot, but that wasn’t the only thing bothering him. He was also feeling horribly guilty about the jagged lines marring the Healer’s chest, their lividness a stark contrast against such pale skin. One of the Healer’s nipples had been deformed by the scarring, and knowing that it was his fault made Harry feel terrible. He hadn’t spared that night in Myrtle’s bathroom a thought since it had happened, but it was bothering him immensely, and he felt the need to apologise, to make things right in some way. He wondered if a lot of that was coming from his near brushes with death lately.

He knew he couldn’t do anything to change it, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that he had hurt Malfoy then by using a spell he didn’t understand with no idea what its effects would be out of spite, out of anger. And even though he remembered that Malfoy had nearly used the Cruciatus Curse on him, Harry had long since accepted that Malfoy had been doing what he had thought he had to do. It wasn’t until after the war, and he had argued for Narcissa and Draco’s freedom that he had even begun to understand the scope of Voldemort’s madness. And that had been as much a painful realisation as the truth before Harry had been. 

Had Harry grown up with his parents, he probably would have done anything for them, too. When it had come out in the trials that Draco had been a pawn, he had felt sickened, and some of the hatred had abated, but it still hadn’t changed things between them. Granted, Harry hadn’t really tried, either. The only reason he had even gone before the Wizengamot on their behalf had been to show that he was capable of forgiveness in spite of what had happened to him at their hands. That and he liked to think that Malfoy hadn’t wanted to play a part in Dumbledore’s death. Malfoy hadn’t looked to Harry as if he had been enjoying himself that whole year. 

Some of the past anger lingered, especially when he thought about how Malfoy had treated him and his friends so long ago, and the part that he had played in the deaths of people he loved. Part of him understood that the circumstances had all been defined by the war, and that made him all the more curious about the who the Healer was behind all of the masks, who his friends were now, and whether he was close to anyone. And it occurred to Harry to wonder what, or who, the Healer had given up in order to provide his care.

Fleeting feelings of understanding left their impressions on Harry’s thoughts and heart as he struggled to separate Malfoy from Draco the Healer. He wasn’t sure why, but as much as he hated the usual bored tone the man had adopted, he also found that the lack of pity evinced by the man went further than the looks he was sure to get from people who didn’t have a clue as to what was going on with him. In a way, he felt almost ingratiated to the other man for never forcing his company or any false kindness. But Harry had to consider what it must have been like to grow up as Draco had: a pampered pure-blood with his parents’ values being forced down his throat at every opportunity; a young man who had grown to expect certain treatment that Harry hadn’t ever given him – considerations that Harry hadn’t given based on the words from Draco’s mouth, rather than other things; and it pained him to think that this Draco was completely a product of a life that, to all appearances, might have been worse than the one Harry had endured. 

He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying at it as he waited somewhat impatiently for the Healer to continue his usual routine.

The Healer was punctual as always, and Harry, more aware of the Healer’s presence than before, tried to hide the blush that crept up his cheeks at sight of him, and Draco went about his clinical routine, ignoring Harry’s difficulty with maintaining eye contact. 

In spite of his best efforts to quash the curiosity he felt, Harry studied the Healer as he worked, and realised with an irritating knot of tension that if he were ever going to get to know Draco, he would have to be sneaky about it. The man simply wasn’t one for small talk or cosy chatting, and while Harry wasn’t exactly the smoothest talker, he was quite certain that if he could engage the Healer long enough, he might learn something other than the tone that Malfoy preferred when he honestly didn’t want to speak to the person desiring his attention.

“Dr— Malfoy,” Harry began, clearing his throat painfully, “I wanted to—” He stopped and looked at the Healer, one of the pale eyebrows was raised, and Harry tried to keep his wits about him, “—I wanted to apologise for hurting you in sixth year. I saw the scars—” He cleared his throat again uncomfortably, a faint heat covering his cheeks, “—last night, erm, when you came in here. I really didn’t know what that spell did, but… Either way, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“It happened a long time ago, Potter. There’s no need to bring it up now.”

“Right,” Harry said sourly. It was just like Malfoy not to acknowledge an apology when it was given. Harry had just admitted that he had been wrong, and it was damned frustrating to have to guess continually what exactly the scant facial cues meant. Instead of letting it get to him, though, Harry tried to keep the Healer engaged. “I heard Pansy married Terry Boot. I would have never expected that. They’ve got two kids, or something…”

“Things have changed,” Draco concurred blandly.

“So they have,” Harry said with a smile. “You know, you hardly ever leave the house… You’re welcome to invite Pansy or Zabini over for dinner. Weren’t you mates at Hogwarts? Or, you know, if you have a partner, he’s welcome to come. You shouldn’t—”

“I don’t have a partner, Potter, and my friends have their own lives,” he said with finality. Harry could tell, for once, that the look on his face indicated that the subject wasn’t open for discussion, but at least Harry had offered. 

The Healer helped Harry turn on his side, and asked, “When I interviewed you about any sexual dysfunction, why didn’t you tell me then that you were having trouble sustaining an erection?”

Harry was glad that he was on his side, as the question made his face burn a bright crimson, and he wanted to bury his face in the pillows. “I didn’t have any problems… It wasn’t until I tried that I noticed. I haven’t exactly been thinking about sex recently…”

“Apparently not,” the Healer said, turning Harry again. “I need to know immediately if you notice any changes in yourself at all. You said you and Weasley’s sister hadn’t had sex for a few weeks, and before that, you said you had only masturbated a few times. Correct?”

Harry nodded in response, his thoughts slipping easily to Ginny and her infidelity. “Maybe I knew that she was fucking Neville,” Harry said softly. “I’m just glad to be done with it. I don’t need to be with someone who’s going to lie to me for months on end.”

Malfoy straightened and maintained an expression that Harry couldn’t read. “You’re healing,” he stated. He was about to say something else, but Harry cut him off before he could speak, and his lips tightened noticeably.

“What are you going through now? What records, I mean?” Harry asked, adjusting in bed. He was glad he had bathed already. He was getting tired again, and he just wanted to go to sleep.

“I’ve been studying the case files on the incidents in which you sustained injury requiring medical attention,” he replied. 

“Okay. Well, goodnight, Malfoy,” Harry said and pulled the duvet around him. Malfoy turned to leave, and Harry closed his eyes, falling to sleep quickly.

To Be Continued…


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15: The Scent of Something Familiar

 

Breakfast was a slow affair for Harry as he sat lost in thought. He’d been more introspective the past two days than he had in his twenty-five years of life, but he was getting tired of thinking – his thoughts always crept back to Ginny, or the Draco in his dreams, and he couldn’t be doing with that, not when he was so confused about how to act around the other man as it was. He was spared the need to worry about it further, though, as Mrs Prout’s entrance into the dining room distracted him. 

The new housekeeper had been kind enough, serving his breakfast as she benignly declined his invitation to join him, and he allowed his tired eyes to study her: her black hair was flecked with grey, but her face was always warm with a smile similar to Molly Weasley’s gracing her features. A soft tune played from her lips as she set his plate before him; a warm aroma of bacon, his favourite Assam, and other things heavily penetrated his long-dull senses. He inhaled, feeling like a fog had lifted, and it was akin to the astonishment he had felt the first time he had ridden the boat across the Black Lake to Hogwarts. It was such a simple thing, but he closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the good memories to provide a barrier between his current situation and the past: he had only been an ignorant eleven-year-old at the time, not knowing anything about the world he had just stepped into, and it had been exhilarating in the same way that a sorely missed familiar smell was to him in that moment. 

Wistfully, he recalled the last time he had sat at Hogwarts, remembering the halls and dorms as another time and place in his life. That had been where everything in the wizarding world had begun for him, and it had been where he had met his best mates, it had also been where he had fallen in love with Ginny, where he had intentionally hurt the man trying to help him now, where he had made up his mind to continue his life. He realised that had he known then what he did now he might not have made the same decisions, as Harry Potter wasn’t just a man to the wizarding world. Harry Potter was an infallible symbol of benevolence, valour, and compassion, a symbol of the defeat of darkness that had plagued the wizarding world for years, and yet he felt more alone than he ever had in his life. The Prophet had been printing articles nearly daily about his infirmity, broadcasting it, vilifying Draco for his manipulations of Hermione in convincing her to sign Harry’s care over to him, and maintaining that he bore no ill-will toward the Saviour. Rita Skeeter had, of course, been the loudest voice in the press, and, once again, Harry was quite grateful that he had been so stringent in the protections cast around his home.

His spirits lifted a bit when he remembered that Hermione was supposed to call after breakfast – and that Teddy and Andromeda would be coming, because even if Teddy didn’t understand what was wrong with him, it made Harry happy to see his godson - and he was amazed that he had made it through half of his meal without any nausea. He hoped that was a good sign, as he was tired of listening to the Healer drone on about his having lost more weight. Harry knew that there were worse things that could happen, and he tried maintain a positive attitude, but he was feeling out of control.

Mrs Prout offered him a genuine smile, the sort that he had only seen from his friends of late, and it made his chest warm as it expanded with the first brief taste of joy he had experienced in what felt like ages. He didn’t ask her to join him again, but he really was getting tired of eating alone. Draco always left him to his own devices, and Harry, while normally content with his solitude, had grown weary of having no one to share his thoughts with – he wanted to talk to someone. He was beginning to feel that he needed to talk to someone. 

He knew that trying to decipher the amalgam of feelings and thoughts that accompanied his dreams was pointless, as he no more understood the meaning of desires than the theories behind the magic that Luna performed daily in the Department of Mysteries: he wasn’t the kind of man who analysed what he was feeling regularly – not without some prodding, anyway.

Luna had, even if her remark concerning erotic dreams about the blond, which had planted the concept squarely in his conscious mind, had only been the result of a guess or a whim, made him think about the Healer more and more. And it didn’t help that he was terrified of the truth of her words, so much so that he could scarcely admit to himself that Draco really did intrigue him. The man was like a puzzle that Harry felt the need to piece together, if only so that he could understand why he felt the need to wear that emotionless mask. He wanted to know what could make a man so cold when the boy he had been so explosive, and what those infinitesimal flickers that he knew must be clues to the feeling behind the mask really meant. Harry didn’t understand those half-hints, which he could sometimes only barely even see, and he wanted to – desperately – if only as a means to win some control over their interactions.

Draco, Harry thought. The Healer’s name was like a whisper in his thoughts, always a strange reminder of their constant push and pull – the contrasts between them – and the similarities that they both tried to hide as though such a revelation would somehow offer fodder for the other to exploit. It was ridiculous, but Harry could no more guess Draco’s thoughts and motives any more than he could understand some of his own choices at times. 

The discombobulating euphoria he had felt upon waking had gently begun to fade the moment Draco had left the room, alerting him that breakfast was ready, the bored tone still making Harry restless, gnawing its way into his psyche. The Healer no longer waited to see that Harry actually got out of bed; instead, he left without more than a stiff reminder that Harry needed to eat, and that he would be back to stretch his legs. Their exchanges had become limited to the Healer checking Harry’s status; those calloused, warm fingers pressing into his still-tender ribs; and a quick update on what the Healer had or had not discovered. To Harry’s mind, Draco was tired of him prying, so the blond had taken to giving a terse reply when Harry began to ask anything, whether it truly had any bearing on his progress with a ‘differential diagnosis’ as he had called it. Nearly a month after having seen Malfoy move in, Harry still wasn’t any closer to understanding the man, and their usual restricted discourse was beginning to wear him out. He understood perfectly well that their past was hardly the friendliest, but, to Harry’s mind, the Healer could have made an attempt at some sort of warmth.

Harry allowed his eyelids to melt closed, relishing the warmth of the dreams, regardless of whether Draco’s lambent grey eyes were visible as the light became darkness, and his mind took over his sight. He felt incredibly odd as he let his thoughts wander, soaking up the comfort he had felt in sleep. It could be addictive, he realised, but he also knew that, rationally, his dreams were nothing of the reality: he and Draco were still at odds in so many ways that it was difficult to separate the growing comfort he felt while sleeping and the always-laconic exchanges they had shared to date when he was awake. 

It wasn’t that Draco wasn’t attentive – he was, and Harry knew that he was doing his job – but the lack of warmth bothered Harry; that the blond was so cold got under Harry’s skin, and whether or not he was willing to admit that his Gryffindor-ish penchant for being noble was at the heart of his need to engage the blond in more than a conversation about whether Harry had gained any more weight was at the root of it.

Harry opened his eyes, and the stormy-grey ones of the Healer met his, and he deflated. Draco looked as though he was about to say something, so Harry watched him intently, taking note of his body language, hoping that it would betray something of the man’s true thoughts.

“You’re eating more,” Draco observed blandly, his eyes roaming over Harry, making him feel slightly uncomfortable. He knew that the discomfort was because of the dreams and his confusion, but it didn’t make the fact that his skin flushed under the other man’s watchful eyes any easier to deal with. He capitulated, allowing the sensations to ripple through him, knowing he was at the mercy of his subconscious, as his thoughts were always a maelstrom when it came to the blond. 

In spite of Harry’s best efforts, he couldn’t read a thing in the other man’s body language, and it irked him because he had been trained to read non-verbal cues, certain tells, but Draco never displayed any of them. He wondered what could close someone off from those around him to the point of walking around like a living statue, rarely initiating conversation, rarely taking the time to enjoy the presence of those around him. Harry tried to curtail the thoughts before they led him any further into the maze of his confusion, but it was damned hard not to wonder about the other man. He looked up, and the Healer still stood before him, so he took a sip of tea, hoping that the movement would disguise the intrigue he really felt. It must have worked because the blond simply reminded him of stretching in five minutes and turned on his heel to leave the room, his elegant robes fluttering in the wake of his retreat, obviating the need for a response. 

Harry finished his tea and made his way to the bedroom, his thoughts shifting wildly. It had been a few days since he had sent the letter about the Healer’s Christmas gift, and, for a moment, he worried that the instant Draco’s name had been read, that the parchment had been tossed in the bin. The possibility that the favour he had asked wouldn’t be granted, and that he could be stuck without a proper gift for Malfoy at Christmas, bothered him; he still had a little bit of time should things not work out, but he honestly hoped that the recipient felt sufficiently indebted to Harry to make it happen despite his current situation. If it didn’t, then he’d think of something else, but he would most likely have to enlist Hermione’s help, and she had other things going on in her life – as did all of his friends. 

Harry wasn’t willing to impose on the witch’s good nature if he could help it, as she had seemed distracted lately, and he was beginning to feel like a burden to his friends. They were making huge sacrifices by coming to visit him regularly, and he couldn’t help but wonder if, one day, should he never walk again, they might stop coming to see him altogether. He didn’t want to think about that, though, not when it left him feeling heavier than all of the Galleons in Gringotts. After all, if his request had been received propitiously, he’d have the perfect gift for the Healer, and requesting the help of his friends wouldn’t be something he would have to worry about. Except, it wasn’t that simple; he still had to worry about Draco to some degree, because the Healer, while calculatedly maintaining his distance, was beginning to occupy Harry’s mind more and more, and Ginny, who he had tried to forget, and move past, still forced her way into his thoughts at the worst times, making him constantly aware of what he had lost with her betrayal. 

The place within him that seemed to hold all of the love he had once had for Ginny now burned painfully, and at night, despite his dreams, as he had lain awake, she had still found her way into his stream of consciousness. He wondered if she had foolishly done something that had caused his current situation, but he couldn’t think of anything that she could have done, not when Draco had already said that he hadn’t been poisoned, so what could she have done that was playing a part in his debility? 

He shrugged it off and hoped that she was truly a better woman than that, for if she wasn’t, Harry wasn’t entirely certain how he would react. He had barely controlled himself when he had learnt of her infidelity to begin with; he didn’t want to think about how he might react should he learn that Ginny had played a part in his illness.

But there’s nothing I can do about that, he thought, with a sigh. He tried to think of anything that might have happened in his past that might aid the Healer’s search for answers, but nothing came to him. It was as though his mind refused to account for any injuries he had endured, and it was maddening to think that he was absolutely no help to his Healer.

Harry passed the bed finally, but his progress slowed, and he stopped the chair, twisting in the seat to figure out what had happened. 

“Shit,” he said, exhaling the words harshly as he closed his eyes and tipped his head back in frustration. He took a deep breath and looked at the knot of duvet-cover that had wrapped around the wheel of his chair, and he exclaimed, “Shit!” again, shaking his head, feeling perturbed at such a simple thing. The fact that he wasn’t able to bend over and untangle the mass of stuffed fabric grated his nerves, and as if all of the planets had aligned against him, he heard the last thing he really wanted to hear.

“Potter,” Malfoy began, but he stopped, and Harry didn’t turn to look at the man. “Ah, I see,” he said, and Harry felt the blond’s sure hand on his shoulder and the cool voice stated, “I’ll take care of it,” as though that fixed everything. Harry stifled the urge to snap at the Healer, as he knew it really wasn’t making things easier between them, and allowed Draco to help him up and settle him comfortably on the bed. 

He knew that allowing his anger to control him wouldn’t do any good, but it didn’t stop the surge of emotion that had flared within him at what was really just a very trivial occurrence. Relying on others for help was growing tiresome, though, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to continue allowing people to do things for him when he was so used to being in control of his surroundings. But even when I was in control, it was because someone else had pushed me in that direction, he realised, and a turning point in his life resurfaced as if it had been buried beneath a pile of dirty socks. He had died once – cursed by Voldemort – given the option to end his life or continue it, and his body seemed to remember that moment when Narcissa Malfoy had leant over him, checking his body for any signs of life. He felt heavy, and it all connected: maybe his having died had something to do with his illness.

The firm yet gentle touch of the Healer yanked Harry from his thoughts, and he spoke, the words tumbling forth in jumbled succession. “I died once.”

“I beg your pardon, Potter. Was that supposed to be English?” Malfoy asked in his usual tone.

“I said, Drac— Malfoy, that I died once,” Harry responded, maintaining the level gaze the Healer had fixed him with. 

Malfoy stopped, and his eyebrows raised a fraction as he responded, “That was not documented in your medical history—”

“It wouldn’t be,” Harry interrupted. Malfoy’s eyes flickered for a moment, and Harry continued, “Is that what’s causing this?”

The Healer appeared pensive for a moment and then asked, “And why haven’t you mentioned this before now?”

“Because I didn’t think about it.”

“And it didn’t occur to you that the fact that you have died once might be the sort of thing I need to know? For crying out—! This isn’t a game, Potter. I need all of the details, down to the last time you prematurely ejaculated during intercourse or masturbation and the last time you got a pimple on your arse. It’s all relevant,” he hissed. “When did this happen?” The Healer’s eyes were cold, and it unnerved Harry the way Malfoy could make him feel so small and insignificant with only a few words.

“The night of the battle at Hogwarts,” Harry replied, his emotions warring with reason.

“Seven years… Potter—” The Healer stopped and straightened. “Before or after the Fiendfyre?” he asked, having regained the impassive mask.

“After.”

“And did you ever stop to think that this might be the sort of thing it would have been sensible to tell your treating Healers at St Mungo’s?”

“Look, Dra— Malfoy, I never thought about it, okay? It happened, and I was fine after. They ran every diagnostic scan there is before I became an Auror, and there was nothing wrong with me. I didn’t think it was that important,” he replied, noting the slight flare of the Healer’s nostrils. He wondered what that meant, but it was gone as soon as it had happened, the wizard’s lips tightening slightly. Harry continued, watching Draco for any expression, “Besides, the Healers checked all of us over after the battle. I was fine.”

“Indeed. Well, the reasons for its exclusion from your medical records apart, the fact that you were ‘fine’ afterwards is no excuse for failing to mention it when you were specifically asked about ‘any incidents in which you sustained major injury’. I need to know what happened,” he said. There was a strange calm in the Healer’s voice as he made the statement, and Harry, who had expected venom, was pleasantly surprised that the blond merely eyed him, one of his pale eyebrows arching in expectation, his lips no longer a thin line.

“Voldemort—” Harry noted the barely perceptible cringe from the Healer and continued, “—killed me,” he said softly. “A lot happened after the Room of Requirement that day, Dra— Malfoy.” 

Tutting, Malfoy maintained eye contact with Harry, a brief flicker of something – something that Harry anxiously wanted to identify – flashing in the silvery depths. “This apparent difficulty you’re having with my name seems to be affecting your ability to communicate at all. If it will enable you to avoid this level of incoherence, I suppose I can tolerate your use of my given name.”

Harry scowled at the blond, but held his temper in check; he was oddly reminded of Snape in that moment, but decided it wasn’t worth arguing about: he’d had enough of that for one lifetime, and hoped that if he could give it a rest, so would the Healer. But he also realised that the Healer had just given him permission to use his name, rather than always reverting to his surname to address him. “Voldemort made seven Horcruxes, and one of them was me. I had to die for that Horcrux to be destroyed. I was given a choice, though, and I came back. Your mother saved me when I woke up in the Forbidden Forest,” Harry said, watching the Healer carefully, but the inscrutable mask of calm prevented Harry from reading anything in Draco’s countenance. “You do know what Horcruxes are, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” he replied succinctly. “My father prided himself on the library at the Manor, and made his displeasure at my infrequent invasions of it quite remarkably clear.”

Harry looked at the Healer, horrified by the implication that Lucius Malfoy had… He didn’t know what. Had the Healer’s father hit him, or cursed him in some way? Harry wasn’t sure what to think, but the implication was there, and in his confusion, he numbly continued the conversation as though nothing had changed, as though he hadn’t just learnt that Malfoy’s mask of perfection was as cracked and delicate as everyone else’s. To Harry’s mind, the tightened jaw and cold eyes were indicative of the difficulty of the admission of Lucius Malfoy’s treatment of Draco.

“The Horcrux is gone…” Harry continued. “You helped us destroy one, you know. In the Room of Requirement, we had just found the last one, and that Fiendfyre that Crabbe set loose… if you hadn’t been there, we might not have destroyed it in time. Neville killed the snake after that, after Hagrid carried me back to the castle,” he said, lost in the memories of what seemed like a lifetime ago. He often wondered how he hadn’t gone mad during the war, chasing the shadows that Voldemort had left behind, hungry, cold, and dealing with the weight of the locket, and the pain it had caused his two best friends. “Would you have handed me over? I mean, if Ron hadn’t punched you, would you have handed me over to Voldemort so he could have killed me?”

Harry wasn’t sure why it was important to know, but his current reliance on the Healer was certainly making him wonder if, even as a misguided adolescent, Malfoy, having failed to kill Dumbledore, could willingly have taken Harry to his death. It seemed wrong to him to think that Malfoy could have actually done it, but Harry knew the desperation that had been in the blond’s eyes on the Astronomy Tower that night well. It was what had driven him to use Unforgivables when the lives of his loved ones had been at stake. And he supposed that the same had applied to Draco at some point, as he had come to realise that people often resorted to desperate measures when their hand was forced. 

“I hardly see how that matters here and now, Potter. Your only concern should be for your health as it stands, not things that happened more than seven years ago.”

“You can’t tell me you enjoyed knowing you might be responsible for someone’s death,” Harry said, looking at the other man in confusion. “I saw you when Greyback brought us in. You didn’t look like you were enjoying what Voldemort had to offer. And Luna said that you helped them in the dungeons.”

“That is irrelevant to—”

Maybe, but it proves you weren’t all bad, Harry thought, wanting to say the words, wondering what sort of reaction it would provoke, if any, from Draco. His pale grey eyes would probably cloud over, but Harry had no idea what would happen, really. “No, it isn’t,” Harry interrupted, shaking his head as though it would force the memories back into some secluded part of his mind. For Harry’s own peace of mind, he wanted to know that Draco’s assistance had been out of compassion, not fear. “There was nothing I could do for your father. The Ministry wanted someone to answer for crimes during the war. I did try, though. Enough families were broken up because of Voldemort.” Harry took a moment to decide whether he wanted to bring up some of the things he had seen while sharing the Dark Lord’s mind, and decided that any reaction was better than none as he said, “Your father didn’t want Voldemort to attack the castle since you were in there. I saw it. Right before Crabbe tried to kill us.” Maybe I’m the only one that believes you weren’t all bad. 

Draco stood still, his face unreadable, but when he finally spoke, his voice was low and clear, “As interesting as that may be, it’s hardly germane to the present situation.”

“You never knew, did you?” Draco didn’t answer; instead, he looked at Harry as though he was simply going to repeat his previous statement, so Harry ploughed on. “Could that have anything to do with whatever’s wrong with me? I mean, could the Horcrux have anything to do with it, and my having died?” Harry asked, looking at the Healer expectantly. If Draco knew about Horcruxes… Harry wasn’t sure whether he should allow himself to trust that Draco would know, but it didn’t stop the feeling of hope from welling within him.

“I will factor it into my research; however, Horcruxes aren’t the sort of thing that crops up in everyday medicine.”

Harry nodded solemnly, unsure of what else to say – as Draco’s expression clearly showed that he had no intention of allowing Harry to continue dredging up the past - so he sat in silence, allowing the Healer to continue his meticulous attentions to his care.   
~*~*~*~

 

Harry wheeled himself to the sitting room to wait for Teddy and Andromeda to arrive. Hermione had left already, but she had said she would return in time to say hello to Andromeda and Teddy. 

He took a moment and admired the large Christmas tree that the witch had insisted would brighten up the house, and he inhaled, the scent of pine tickling his nose. As he shifted his gaze, the packages under the tree drew his attention, and he noticed that there was another wheelchair sitting in just off to the side of the large decoration. He took a moment to think about what it was and why it was there, but Hermione’s voice forestalled any further conjecture about the new addition.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was soft as she spoke, and he looked up, offering her a brief smile. “Are you all right?” Draco entered the sitting room behind her.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Andromeda and Teddy are here,” she said. “I’ll be right back. I can’t stay, but I had to pick up something for Draco in London.”

Harry watched as Hermione followed Malfoy upstairs, and Andromeda and Teddy came in, his godson clinging tightly to his grandmother’s robes.

“Hey, Teddy, Andromeda,” Harry said, gesturing for them to take a seat.

Andromeda kissed Harry’s cheek and sat on the sofa, and Teddy offered a weak smile as he passed with his Harry Potter doll in tow. The glasses were missing, and the floppy arm dangled below its head, looking the same way that Harry felt: useless and broken.

“How are you feeling, Harry?” Andromeda asked, her kind face the picture of parental concern.

“Better, thanks,” he said. “You?”

“Well enough. Teddy keeps me quite busy,” she offered with a smile. “Teddy, darling, go say hello to Harry.”

He buried his face in Andromeda’s side, hiding the fear and curiosity that Harry could read in his young visage. It hurt to watch the boy hide, and while Harry tried his best to remain calm, there was nothing to soften the familiar rise of discordant emotions. 

“Are you staying for dinner?” Harry inquired, hoping that more time spent with his godson would help ease the boy’s obvious anxiety. 

“That would be lovely, Harry. Thank you,” Andromeda replied. 

She was about to say something when Hermione re-joined them, giving Harry a quick hug. “I have to go, but I wanted to talk to you for a second. Will you walk me out? I had to drive.”

“All right. Andromeda, I’ll be right back.”

Harry followed Hermione into the large courtyard of herringbone block paving outside Hightrees, and they stopped at the gate. “You probably shouldn’t go outside the gate. I don’t know what the charms will do to you…” Hermione said. 

“It’s fine. What’s going on?” 

“How are you and Malfoy getting on?” she asked, her face expectant in a way that Harry had grown used to over the years. She knew something, and she was going to tell him, but, as always, she would work up to it rather than just say it outright.

“Fine.” He shrugged. “He’s not exactly George, but it’s not that bad, really,” Harry said. He knew there was more to it than that, and the sigh from Hermione indicated that she wanted to know more than he was saying, so he elaborated, “He rarely talks, and when he does, he tends to make me feel like an idiot.” There was a sour note to Harry’s voice as he replied, and he realised that even if he had been thinking about Malfoy a lot, it still didn’t change the way the blond acted. Draco’s dispassionate demeanour really rankled, and even talking about it with Hermione resurrected the irritation that had been brewing within him since their conversation after breakfast. 

“But you two aren’t fighting?” she pressed.

“No, we’re not. He doesn’t make any sense, really, Hermione. He’s like Snape, but there’s something else there that I can’t figure out.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry. I talked to a Healer he used to work with today, and she said that was ‘just his way’. It seems Malfoy has always kept his head low, and that fforde-Fane wanted to keep him even lower. The Board didn’t want to take him on in the first place, but they had no reason not to: he was knowledgeable, and even if he lacked any real sympathy, his patients never complained,” Hermione said. “The man we saw in the Daily Prophet with Malfoy was his lover. He helped Malfoy get a job after he finished the training programme. He’s fought hard to get where he is; I don’t think he’s had it easy.” Hermione evincing sympathy for Malfoy was slightly mad to Harry’s mind, especially after the things Malfoy had done to them in the past, but he listened to her anyway. Besides, if Hermione could look past certain things that Malfoy had done, why couldn’t he? They had been in the middle of a war; many things had happened in the name of ‘good intentions’. 

“So?” Harry asked, completely missing the point.

Hermione sighed heavily. “I don’t think he’s being intentionally brusque. I think he’s had a rough time of it, and he’s responding the only way he knows how. I mean, really, Harry, Lucius went to Azkaban; he’s been dealing with the prejudice of him having been a Death Eater, even with your testimony… I just think that you should be patient with him.”

“I have been,” Harry grated out. He was perturbed by Hermione’s assumption that he had been intentionally difficult with the Healer, and he tried to rein in the urge to snap. It wasn’t fair, Harry thought, for her to assume the worst of him. 

“I think he really wants to help,” Hermione said as if to solidify her point. 

“Oh, he’s helping,” Harry replied sarcastically. “Look, I understand that he’s had a rough time of it—”

“No, you don’t, Harry.” Hermione’s face was stern, an amalgam of irritation and knowledge etching fine lines around her face. “Just give him a chance.”

Harry sighed. He’d already made up his mind about giving Draco a chance; he just hadn’t felt the need or had the opportunity to make a general announcement about it. “I’m trying, but it’s hard. I can’t figure out if he’s really angry, or if he’s just being Malfoy. Today I told him about the Horcruxes, and asked him if that had anything to do with what’s wrong with me, and he just seemed pissed off about it. Like he expected me to tell him my life story—”

“Harry, listen, I think you can trust him. The Healer I spoke with today said that Malfoy really knows what he’s doing, and I don’t think she’d lie to me. Trust him. You don’t have to like him, but he really is here to help you. You have to stop taking it as a personal insult.”

“I know,” Harry replied, shaking his head. “I mean, honestly, though, he isn’t going to have to be here much longer, so why should it matter? I don’t get him. He goes out of his way to hire a housekeeper then treats me like I’m a complete berk. Then he sends me out of a room because he’s afraid his wand will misfire and kill me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to react to that. First, I’m angry, but I try not to be so it doesn’t make things more difficult. I just want him to figure it out so I can get back to normal.” Harry was resolute that he would walk again, even if part of him had begun trying to come to terms with the fact that he might not, and rather than think negatively, he remained steadfast that he’d give up everything he had to feel his legs propelling himself forward once again, to feel independence. 

Hermione didn’t reply immediately; instead, she hugged Harry, and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I know it’s hard. But you should think about what you’re going to do if things don’t get better.” The implication ‘think about what you’re going to do if you don’t get better’ made Harry’s heart ache painfully, and he tried to ignore it. Hermione’s brown eyes were soft, full of the pity he despised, and Harry couldn’t help but wish that she would redirect her compassion elsewhere. 

I will walk again, Harry vowed. 

“I’ll be fine,” Harry said resolutely. “You’ll see. He’ll figure it out in another week or two, and I can forget any of it ever happened,” he added with confusion lacing his tone: sure, everything would go back to normal, but what if he still dreamt about Draco…? He tried not to let those thoughts linger for too long, but they wouldn’t go away, and he hated to admit that he wondered what it all meant anyway. He didn’t really fancy Draco. 

Hermione’s lips pursed slightly, but she didn’t contradict Harry’s seemingly positive outlook on things.

“What did you have to pick up for Draco?” Harry asked, remembering why she was there so late.

“He said he needs to run a bone marrow test on you. He wants to rule out some Muggle illnesses. I went to Guy’s Hospital to pick up some equipment for the procedure. I didn’t know the Muggle hospitals worked with Healers, but apparently they do for some Spell Damage patients.” She shifted uncomfortably, and Harry could tell she was tired from the look on her face; he hoped that he hadn’t contributed to her fatigue. “Anyway, I had to speak with a doctor called Alan Henderson in Accident and Emergency. Malfoy calls himself Doctor Drake with the Muggles. It was quite amusing, really. He—” Hermione stopped, looking as though she wasn’t sure she really wanted to say what was on the tip of her tongue, but she inhaled and continued, “He’s really changed since the war, Harry.”

“Yeah, he has,” Harry replied softly, thinking about what Hermione had just said. Muggle tests, Harry thought. That can’t be good. He wanted to ask the Healer about it, but he knew that their earlier conversation had probably been about as much talk as he was likely to get from Healer for another week.

“Right, well I need to go. Ron’s waiting for me, and it’s been a long day,” Hermione said with a tired smile.

“Oh, why were you at St Mungo’s? Are you okay?”

“Fine, Harry. Wasn’t feeling well.” She smiled again, and gave Harry a brief hug before turning to leave. “Get some rest. I’ll see you on Christmas Eve.”

Harry waved, the gate creaking in the cold December air at Hermione’s exit, and watched as she walked down the street and got into her car. He knew he couldn’t have helped if anything happened, but it was habit. Harry had never really forgiven himself for not helping Hermione when Bellatrix had used the Cruciatus Curse on her.

Shivering slightly, now that the cool air had penetrated Harry’s jumper and jeans, he turned around and made his way back inside the house, realising that that was the first time he had been outside since Hermione had brought him home from St Mungo’s. 

Water splashed against his trouser-legs as he tried to manoeuvre through the doorway without hitting the frame on the way inside. He was careful, but he still managed to scrape the wheels along the painted wood, leaving a small pile of black chips on the ground in his wake.

He cursed softly as he re-entered the house and closed the door behind him, the heavenly smell of something roasting in the cooker assaulting his senses as he made his way back to the sitting room.

Draco was speaking to Andromeda, but he stopped as Harry entered the room. It only took a moment, but they resumed their conversation, and Harry looked around, noticing Teddy’s jubilant face. His white-blond godson now occupied the ‘ordinary’ wheelchair he had descried earlier, and his face lit up while Harry watched him rolling the wheels as he slowly inched forward. 

“Harry,” Teddy began, “it’s like a car for inside the house.” His impish giggle lifted Harry’s spirits slightly, and he forgot about medical tests, trying to concentrate on the warmth that his godson created within him. Teddy’s short arms barely reached the wheels, and he moved forward, positioning the other chair beside Harry, but not without hitting the wall a few times. Harry found that he really didn’t mind. A bit of scraped paint was nothing, really. At least Teddy looked at him with something other than fear in his eyes, which were now a sparkling green to match Harry’s; his hair remained the same white-blond as Draco’s, though.

Teddy looked at Harry with his head turned to the side slightly so he could see his godfather better, and Harry noted with dismay that he had the doll in his lap. “Draco said you’re poorly,” Teddy said finally.

“Yeah,” Harry replied with a faint upturn of his lips. Now he understood the second chair; he looked at Malfoy, his appreciation clear in his eyes, and a pale eyebrow quirked in return, with a barely perceptible incline of his perfectly groomed head. Harry supposed that was all the acknowledgement he was going to receive for his appreciation, but it was better than nothing, and even though he was no closer to understanding the other man, it seemed that they were both trying in equal measure not to make life difficult, and that was really all Harry could reasonably hope for. 

“What happened?” Teddy asked innocently, his gaze shifting between Harry and Draco.

“Teddy!” Andromeda chided.

“It’s okay,” Harry said, grateful that Teddy even wanted to talk to him, especially after their last visit. “I don’t know. My legs don’t work any more,” Harry said.

“Do they hurt?” Teddy asked, sliding, doll in hand, out of his chair. He climbed into Harry’s lap and rested his back against Harry’s muscled chest. It was a familiar position for Harry, and it brought him a certain amount of comfort, knowing that things, while not normal, were bearable for the time being. 

“No,” Harry said, chuckling, running a hand gently over the short, pale hair of his godson affectionately. This was the normality he had been missing, and it felt good to have even a small piece of it back. 

“Are you listening to Andromeda?”

“Yes!” Teddy said, giggling. “We went to see Mummy and Daddy. I left some flowers for them and a picture I drew.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know! But they smelt sweet and were pink,” he said with a grimace. Harry laughed, and Teddy turned to look at him, his face scrunched in curiosity. “Where’s Ginny?”

“That’s none of your business, Teddy,” Andromeda scolded. “Sorry, Harry.”

Harry just nodded.

Teddy’s questioning went on for ages until Mrs Prout came in to tell them that dinner was ready, and Harry let Teddy slide from his lap. He ran to Draco and pulled on his hand impatiently. “Come on, Draco,” Teddy said, tugging fruitlessly against the tall man’s arm. “Sit next to me.”

“Draco, will you join us for dinner?”

“No, thank you, Aunt Andromeda. I’ve got a few things to take care of this evening.”

Teddy frowned adorably, hugging Draco, and Harry felt the stirring of irritation at Teddy’s desire for Draco to join them, but he didn’t say anything, hoping that no one saw the fleeting emotion. The Healer retreated upstairs, and Harry followed Andromeda and Teddy to the dining room, a table full of food ready for them. 

Dinner was enjoyable, and Harry was glad that Teddy seemed to have opened up a little more, and he decided to thank Draco for his… kindness? Harry snorted to himself, thinking that putting Draco’s name and kindness in the same sentence would probably result in the same sour smile he had given when Harry had found out the Healer’s weakness with his wand. He tried not to feel too insulted by Teddy’s constant chatter about Draco, but it was difficult having to hear the boy talk as though he knew something no one else did. And Harry found himself starting to wonder if he did. 

After dinner, they went back to the sitting room, and Harry told Teddy a story until the boy fell asleep in Harry’s lap. Draco didn’t rejoin them after their meal, but Harry hadn’t really expected him to. The evening died, seeming to have passed faster than a spark of jealousy, and he bade them goodnight, feeling much better than he had after their previous visit. He would see Teddy and Andromeda again for Christmas, and that lifted his otherwise low spirits.

By the time he lay down in bed after his evening bath, waiting for Draco, he was incredibly tired, and he inhaled the scent of his fresh bedding, smelling the crisp scent as though he had never smelt it before. He was adjusting his pillow, lost in the simple enjoyment of his sense of smell when Draco came in.

“I like whatever Mrs Prout is using for the washing better than what Mrs Hanby used.” Draco merely raised an eyebrow in response and assisted Harry to settle for his evening routine.

“There’s a Muggle test I need to perform on you in a few days’ time. It’s not a comfortable procedure, but it should enable me to rule out a number of Muggle illnesses.”

“All right,” Harry replied, watching the Healer work. 

They shared an amicable silence as Harry lay still, enjoying the feeling of his muscles relaxing under the Healer’s touch. He wondered if he had had always felt so comfortable and relaxed during the stretches, but realised it was probably because of the dreams he had been having, and he tried to ignore it, telling himself that he was starved for intimate physical contact from another human; his mind would conjure any image as long as it was remotely comforting. It was odd, though, that while his mind continued to force him to question some things, his body seemed to have no objections to Draco’s touch. 

Having completed his routine, Draco helped Harry cover himself, and as the Healer left, Harry called out, “Wait, Draco.”

“Yes, Potter?”

“Thanks for what you did with Teddy,” Harry said, setting his spectacles on the night table. 

“I have been around children before,” he replied, and Harry added a hasty goodnight before the Healer turned out the light and closed the door, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

To Be Continued…


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Bearing the Gift of Selflessness Pt 1

 

Harry was completely relaxed, his body unwinding then slowly tightening again as Draco’s hand slid the length of his cock, his mouth teasing Harry’s sensitive, contact-starved flesh. Harry moaned ineloquently, his muscles contracting with each swipe of wet heat that laved his skin, tortuously drawing out each pulse of pleasure that assailed his body. The sheets bunched tightly in his white-knuckled grip, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each avid swallow. His mouth was dry, and he tried to catch his breath, but the way Draco’s hand continued to grip him, tease him, and demand that he pay homage for each lick and stroke made it nearly impossible. Completely at the blond’s mercy, he relaxed and let the other man tend to his needs, which grew more and more intense as time passed. Wanting someone as much as he did in that moment shouldn’t have been possible, as he had never desired anything so much that his body trembled at the thought, nearly shaking in anticipation. 

He spread his legs, letting the heat coiling within him swell until it nearly choked him with its intensity. Draco shifted, his head moving slowly down Harry’s chiselled torso, his tongue mapping a path to his hips, and his teeth leaving indentations that sent agonising impulses from Harry’s core to the tips of his fingers and toes, which gripped impulsively for any purchase, crumpling the sheets between them only to release the soft material and reach for it again. Warm, calloused fingers slid against his heated skin, begging for him to open, and he did, completely vulnerable, trusting the other man with everything as his eyelids closed of their own accord. The ghost of a touch pressed against his arse as pale lips enveloped his achingly hard cock in the smoothest glide he’d ever felt. His hips arched as Draco’s tongue swirled around the swollen head of his prick, sending almost painful waves of need through him. 

“Draco,” he moaned, as the tender hands slid to his hips, holding him in place as the blond’s cheeks hollowed, and all of the wet warmth of his mouth, the ridges of his palate, brushed the leaking, throbbing head as he worked more of Harry’s length into him, completely devouring him with more fervour than Harry could comprehend. One of the hands on his hips shifted slightly, taking hold of his swollen testicles and rubbing them gently, taunting Harry as he lay defenceless, craving the contact more than he could fathom. 

Draco released his hold on Harry’s cock, and Harry opened his eyes to Draco sucking his fingers into his mouth. Their gazes connected, and a glint of something he couldn’t understand swam in the liquid-grey depths. He watched in rapt fascination as Draco’s pink tongue ran around his pale fingers before releasing them. He watched as they disappeared between his legs and Draco’s mouth returned to his throbbing erection. The slick feel of Draco’s hand working its way lower excited Harry more as he arched and opened his legs as wide as they would spread, inviting the blond to continue his explorations. He trusted the man completely, and it didn’t matter that he’d never done anything like this before, only that it was Draco, because he felt safe – cherished. 

His body tingled with the torment of Draco’s slow ministrations, and he inhaled sharply as he was breached for the first time, feeling his knees weaken, and the simultaneous pressure made him feel like he was going to crack, brittle and sharp, against the slow glide of Draco’s finger as it slipped in and out of him. He felt tight and vulnerable against the penetration, but Draco’s mouth more than made up for any discomfort by taking his cock deep, his tongue flat against the taut, needy skin. 

Harry’s hips jerked slightly as he felt a second finger joining that already moving in him but he didn’t make Draco stop; he was too far gone to plead for leniency as the second entered him, stretching him, forcing him to gasp, Draco’s name being the only thing his hardly-coherent mind would allow to pass his lips. His body, ablaze with desire, tingled, jolted by the stiff thrusts in. He felt his erection flagging, unused to the slight burn of the intrusion, but Draco continued, lovingly coaxing his cock back to life. It felt good – so good – as he opened his eyes again, unconscious that he had closed them and watched, revelling in the sensations coursing through him as the blond’s arm moved back and forth, his knowledgeable fingers hitting something within him that both ached and exploded with pleasure. 

He arched his back as Draco sped up, his tongue eagerly lapping at Harry’s painfully engorged prick until Harry lost control. His eyes closed so tightly it hurt, and his back bowed as he tried to force his cock deeper into Draco’s mouth – into his throat. Draco’s fingers hit that spot within him again, and he shattered, his balls drawing up, and the knot of release uncoiling so quickly he could barely move, his muscles snapping taut as Draco sucked his spurting cock. 

He finally settled against the bedding, his heart hammering in his chest, utterly satisfied. He blinked a few times, realising that Draco was nuzzling his pelvis, fingers still slowly pushing into him. Harry inhaled as he felt that spot within him flare again, and he cringed from discomfort, an audible gasp escaping his lips. Draco looked up, his hand stilling immediately as his eyes roamed over Harry’s face and chest. He slowly removed his fingers, massaging Harry’s raw opening gently, placing a kiss on his hip. He didn’t say a word, but it wasn’t required, and Harry dropped his head back on the pillows, sighing. “Draco,” he began, his voice hoarse, “come here.”

Draco shifted and aligned his body beside Harry’s, and he propped himself on his elbow, facing the other man, inching forward tentatively for a kiss. Harry’s mouth exploded with the first taste of Draco and come, and it was far more arousing than he thought it should have been. He drew his hands along Draco’s well-defined flanks, his fingertips feeling each bump and curve of his musculature until he stopped at his jaw, pulling Draco’s peaceful face forward, their lips meeting softly. Harry was afraid, but he continued, and gently nipped the blond’s swollen lip, begging for entry. He soothed the skin, and plunged his tongue into Draco’s open mouth, his head tilting to the side as he lost himself to the lazy strokes of the Healer’s tongue against his. 

He pulled away, his lips leaving a trail of hot spit as he stopped at the juncture of the blond’s neck and shoulder, and sank his teeth into the pliant flesh to taste Draco for the first time. He stopped, unsure exactly what he wanted to do, but sure enough that he wanted to touch everything, every part of Draco’s body, so he ran his hand from the strong shoulder, down his bicep, biting the blond’s chin playfully as he caressed every available inch of skin. 

On the return trip up Draco’s arm, Harry stopped at his shoulder. The skin trembled beneath his touch, and he tipped him back toward the mattress, his mouth reclaiming the blond’s. His hand drew a line from the strong shoulder until it stopped in the middle of Draco’s chest; his fingers curled, nails raking the firm body beneath him. He shifted for comfort and slowly returned to the discovery of Draco’s body, his hand inching lower as their kiss continued, growing more desperate with each change in the pace Harry set. His lips pursed, wet with saliva and sweat as he felt the texture of Draco’s neck beneath his mouth, his hand finally reaching its goal.

Draco’s cock rested on his flat stomach, a puddle of pre-come collecting in the slit. Unable to tear his eyes away in wonder, Harry watched himself lift Draco’s throbbing prick for the first time, feeling it tense and pulse in his inexperienced hand. His palm twisted until his fingers wrapped securely around the thick shaft, and he stroked almost curiously, turning to look at Draco’s expression. The only indication that he was enjoying the contact was the barely audible sigh that escaped his lips when Harry covered his mouth again.

He continued to twist his hand, kissing Draco as though he’d never feel the blond’s sure caresses again, and he moved, hungry for more, wanting to feel Draco’s come pulsing into his hand. Lips, eager and passionate, dropped to Draco’s chest, and he whispered, “Like that?” dragging a hardened nipple between his teeth. 

“Yes,” the blond replied, so softly that Harry wasn’t sure he had heard him, but he had, and he couldn’t stop. He wanted to feel everything despite his arm growing tired and his body aching from the awkward position. 

Harry laid his head on Draco’s chest, the fast-paced thump of Draco’s heart pounding against his ear as he fisted the willing cock, listening to the soft sighs issuing from the other man’s lips. Draco’s arm tensed beneath him, and his fingers scrabbled against Harry’s thigh as he increased the speed of his strokes, and Draco finally let go, his body shuddering violently. The feel of hot come on his hand was tantalising, but it was the sound of his name falling carelessly from Draco’s lips that made him jump in surprise.

Harry woke violently, his body jerking. He propped himself on his elbows as disbelief slithered around him, making the second dream more surreal than the first. His heart stuttered in his chest, and he squinted around the darkened room, trying to regain his senses as he scrubbed his eyes roughly with his hands, and reached for his spectacles as he felt the cold fluid that had settled at his groin. He groaned loudly, unsure what to think or how to proceed. 

Hoisting himself from bed, he sat in his chair, needing to get away from the reminder of his errant subconscious and had just settled himself when the door opened and the object of his fascination walked in, the usual impassive expression on his handsome face. Harry hoped that Draco couldn’t see the shock in his countenance, and he tried to cover it quickly by offering a stiff salutation as he urged the chair toward the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, not caring whether Draco had anything to say; facing the man was the last thing he felt equal to at that moment, and his head dropped, his chin painfully snapping his jaw shut as it hit his chest, and he pressed his palms to his face until the frames of his glasses dug into his cheeks. 

He couldn’t think about his dreams – not then. He was barely awake, and he wasn’t looking forward to the day at all. Despite it being Christmas Eve, Draco had informed Harry that he would be conducting the test he had mentioned a few days ago. Harry hadn’t asked many questions about it, but the reminder that it would be uncomfortable resonated in his thoughts as he began to prepare for his bath. With everything he needed in place, and his bladder empty, he lifted his legs over the ledge of the tub one at a time and slid into the lift. The water felt good against his clammy skin, and he tilted the lift back to recline comfortably as the tension slowly left his body. I can do this, Harry thought, even though he knew that convincing himself that everything would be all right was simply an old coping mechanism: he was sure that was the only reason he was still sane after everything he’d endured. 

He tried not to spare any thoughts for his dreams - or anything else, for that matter - as he enjoyed the soothing bath. When his skin was wrinkled and he felt clean, he finished washing, and raised the lift. The laborious task of towelling off and dressing went slowly, but he managed to work his pants and jeans over his hips finally, and left, his jumper clinging to his damp skin. 

The dining room was unexpectedly empty, but Draco sauntered in, inexpressive as usual, and spoke. “I don’t think you should eat before this procedure. It may make you ill.”

Harry shook his head at the Healer, flustered already from seeing him, and replied with a dry chuckle, “No, I imagine vomit ruining your robes would be disastrous.” 

Draco didn’t reply immediately, but there was a brief flicker of something in his eyes as Harry looked up, and he felt his face flush as he watched the Healer’s lips move. “Contrary to what you may believe, Potter, I’m not that shallow. I’m merely thinking of your comfort, but should you like to ignore my suggestion, Mrs Prout can easily take care of your breakfast.”

Harry had the sense to feel ashamed of his assumption, ashamed of his childish bad habit of speaking without thinking, so he shook his head and asked, “So how does this work?” hoping that he could somehow salvage the situation. He hadn’t intended to come across as rude, but he realised that Draco wouldn’t have recognised humour from him anyway.

“Easily. Usually one takes the bone marrow from the hip, but as you spend most of your time sitting and lying in bed, that would be inappropriate – the risk of infection is higher, for one thing - so I’ll be taking the sample from your breastbone. I’ll need to shave the hair and sterilise the site, and, of course, I’ll use a numbing agent,” he said, watching Harry closely. Harry nodded that he understood, and Draco continued, “I’ll need to make a small incision into the flesh of your sternum; that’ll allow me to access the bone marrow more easily. I’ll take the sample by pushing a large needle into the core of the bone itself. There’s no avoiding the fact that that will be uncomfortable. Once I have the sample, I’ll remove the needle and cover the incision. It won’t take long, and you should try to eat afterwards. Your appetite seems to have returned, so I expect your weight to increase over the next few weeks.” The blond paused and regarded Harry for a moment. “Would you like me to ask Mrs Prout to assist me?”

“No, I don’t think I want her to see that,” Harry replied. He really didn’t want Mrs Prout to see him too vulnerable, but he didn’t want to say that. He really didn’t even want Draco to see him so vulnerable, but there was nothing for it. He felt weak enough as it was, but admitting it was out of the question - not when he was having a hard enough time making sense of his dreams, the man who stood before him, and his waning desire for the life he had used to have with Ginny.

“Very well. I shall request that she stay outside the door in case something should happen.”

“All right. Where do I need to be?” Harry asked, sounding more confident than he felt.

“On your bed should be fine,” Draco replied.

Nodding, Harry went to the bedroom, and Draco followed behind, a large case in his hand. Harry stopped the chair by the bed, and his Healer helped him settle comfortably on top of the quilt before moving the chair so he had more room to work. A brilliant blush painted Harry’s cheeks as he took off his jumper and the lights flared to life. Draco went to the door, closing it after asking Mrs Prout to stand by. 

His nerves were tingling with anxiety, but Harry waited patiently as Draco opened the case, pulling all of the necessary tools from inside. A stool that Harry hadn’t seen before sat next to the bed, and he watched Draco’s graceful, economic movements. He hated having to deal with this, and to help ease some of his discomfort with the procedure, he asked, “Why do you have to do this?”

Draco took a moment to check Harry’s status before answering, his concentration absorbed in the seemingly mindless task. He pulled the cuff from Harry’s arm and said, “Eliminating Muggle illnesses is essential to reaching a firm diagnosis.” He turned and picked up the quill sitting atop a stack of parchments on the table, and jotted down a note quickly.

“Why now?” Harry asked, wondering why the test hadn’t been done sooner.

“I had to wait until your ribs were sufficiently healed before attempting this. It requires a lot of pressure to make the needle pierce the bone.”

“Oh,” Harry replied, feeling as though that was quite obvious. “Have you ever done this before?”

“No.”

Anxiety swelled in Harry even more. He wondered if he was mad to trust Draco to perform a procedure he’d never had any experience with, but there was something about the meticulous way in which he handled the instruments, and his concentration as he situated everything, that made Harry want to trust him. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, trying not to pick at his fingers, but it was impossible. Hermione had said to trust him, and Harry wondered for a moment if Draco had any worries over whether Harry trusted him or not. If he wanted you dead, he’d have killed you already, his mind reasoned, and he sadly had to agree. Trust him, his mind prodded, sounding oddly like Hermione. His eyes closed, and he tried to breathe steadily as the Muggle razor moved over his skin. He didn’t want to watch – not yet. He felt the hairs snagging, and his nerves protested weakly against the pull. It wasn’t until he felt the press of something with a soft tip moving against his skin that he opened his eyes. Draco had marked the area he was going to make the incision in, and Harry waited, his hands shaking against his sides. 

“Isn’t there somebody at Guy’s that could do this, too?” Harry asked as Draco painted his chest with something acrid and sticky.

“What’s the matter, Potter? Don’t trust me with a hypodermic?”

“N-no— It’s not that,” Harry said softly, his discomfort making it difficult to speak.

“This is a local anaesthetic,” Draco said, holding up a reasonably small hypodermic with a clear liquid inside the syringe’s chamber. The plunger had been drawn back already.

Harry nodded as the needle pierced his skin, and he felt the fluid rush through him like slivers of ice. It didn’t take long before his chest no longer felt like his own, and Draco pressed the tips of his warm, calloused fingers into Harry’s ribs. Thankfully there was no discomfort, and Draco removed his hands quickly, leaving Harry blushing. How he could even think about his dreams at that moment was completely ridiculous, yet the touch had sparked the heat in him that he had felt then, but it died quickly when he saw the scalpel in Draco’s gloved hand. He watched in nervous fascination as the cut was made, feeling nothing apart from the cold that made his nipples harden. 

“You’re going to feel pressure when I insert the needle,” Draco said clinically, almost as though he were reading a list of steps from a book. He wasn’t. Harry checked.

Trying to relax was pointless, so Harry breathed in and out slowly as he watched the long piece of steel disappear into his chest. It felt cold, and Draco was right, he did feel pressure, but it wasn’t unbearable – at least it wasn’t until Draco hit the bone. The force was heavy against him, and it felt like a frozen twig had just tunnelled bluntly through him. The initial press was nothing like the second, and reflexively, Harry reached out, his hand gripping Draco’s leg tightly for some – any – sort of support as the shock of the marrow being sucked from his breastbone hit him full on. He gasped, crying out as he tightened his hold on the Healer’s leg, feeling the flexing of Draco’s muscles under his robes. 

He just wanted it to end, and the pressure worsened for a moment; the siphoning of the marrow felt more like Draco was trying to steal the breath from his lungs. Tears blurred his vision, and he held onto Draco as though he were lost, struggling to cling onto a life-preserver in a hurricane-whipped sea; and in a very real sense, he was. The Harry lying in Draco’s care was not the man who had fought Voldemort, and he wasn’t the man who had fallen in love with Ginny Weasley, either: he was lost and confused, and that simple connection with another human being felt more liberating than Voldemort’s fall had. It was knowing he wasn’t alone.

Harry felt the needle slide from his chest and Draco sat on the stool, and Harry still held the other man tightly, his eyes closed against his infuriating weakness. The sides of his face were wet, and the contact he maintained with Draco’s body grounded him as he felt the dressing cover his chest. Neither man spoke for a long time, and Harry suspected that that was just as well, because if he had spoken then, he probably would have called Draco every foul name he knew, damning Draco for the things that weren’t his fault, and making apologies for everything that was Harry’s. It was chaotic in a way he’d never felt before, and he opened his eyes to Draco’s visage set in a perfect mask of calm. There was a fold near the corners of his eyes, though, and Harry tried to process what it might mean, but there was nothing to give him an insight. When his heart rate returned to normal, he slowly relaxed his hold on Draco’s thigh, embarrassed for needing the comfort – that contact - to begin with.

Draco moved as soon as Harry had released him, and he said, “That had better not bruise,” disinterestedly. 

Is that all you can think of? Harry’s mind demanded incredulously, and if his face could have got any darker, it had at that statement, and he reached for his jumper, seeking to cover his exposed body. His chest ached as he moved, but he was able to get his top on easily enough, and was grateful when Draco stood, closing the case on the night table, all evidence of the needle gone. The remains of his tears cooled on Harry’s face, and he wiped them quickly as Draco began to leave the room.

“Why today?” Harry asked. It was Christmas Eve; surely Draco didn’t have to work through Christmas, and, for once, Harry felt that expediency wasn’t nearly as important as the need to be with family and friends. And that applied to Draco, too.

“Your illness doesn’t know it’s Christmas, Potter; it’s not going to take a day off, and my duty to you means that I’m not, either. Now, go eat something.”

He hadn’t seen Draco’s face through the reply, but there was something about the composed tone he’d used that made Harry’s heart clench. There was duty, and that was well and good as far as he was concerned, but he honestly had no expectations that Draco work through Christmas. A sense of pity crept over him at that revelation: the way Draco had replied had sounded like obsession to Harry’s mind, and he tried to understand what would drive someone to treat his situation in such a way. Though, if Hermione had been correct, and she usually was, then Draco had had to prove himself quite a bit in order to maintain his position at St Mungo’s, and that meant he had given up a lot, even if he wouldn’t admit it, in order to provide Harry’s private care. He felt guilty then, knowing that even if there was no partner, or his friends had their own lives, Harry realised that Draco couldn’t be feeling any more exuberant about spending Christmas working than Harry was dealing with tests. Draco still had his mother, though, and before the blond left the room, Harry said, “Surely your mum wants you to spend some time at the Manor over Christmas?” probing for anything beyond the usual brief and mostly uninformative replies. 

“I will see my mother on Boxing Day,” he said and made to leave the room. Harry, not realising that Draco had stopped, was startled by the blond’s voice when he spoke again. “Potter, this may seem a silly question, but what does 'MDm' signify? It occurs quite regularly in your field reports, but it doesn't match the initials of any hex or curse with which I'm familiar. I've been presuming that it meant ‘Minor Damage’, since ‘MD’ is ‘Minor Disturbance’, but some of the contexts in which it appears are such that I'm really not sure that’s the case.” 

“It means ‘Miscellaneous Dark Magic’. It’s any sort of magic that we couldn’t identify at the time,” Harry responded easily. “It happens a lot—” Harry stopped at Draco’s expression. Both of his lips had thinned, and Harry immediately realised that Draco wasn’t happy. Although how he was to have known that Draco couldn’t interpret the informal shorthand in the reports, he wasn’t sure. The blond’s head tilted slightly, and then he shook his head. It didn't take a brilliant mind to interpret that last movement: Harry remembered from school that it meant that Draco was about to attempt something genuinely spectacular, and even if he wasn’t sure exactly how it would manifest in these circumstances, he was well aware that it meant that Draco had just raised his game somehow. 

After sharing a brief word with Mrs Prout, Draco left as Harry transferred to his chair and slowly made his way to dining room for breakfast.

To Be Continued…


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Bearing the Gift of Selflessness Pt 2

 

The strains of Silent Night combined with the sound of children’s laughter in the garden and drew Harry’s attention from reading one of the Muggle books that Hermione had brought him weeks ago. He found it hard to enjoy the story, so he moved to the window in his bedroom to watch Mrs Prout's children play in the enchanted snow that covered the trees, bushes, and magical plant life that Ginny had insisted that they procure for their garden. Everything was covered with heavy cloud-like clumps, and he felt a smile tugging at his lips as he watched the children’s dark heads ducking the frozen projectiles that flew from their siblings’ hands. He didn’t know how Draco had done it, but the blond had charmed enough snow to fall that Mrs Prout’s children could occupy themselves. They were bundled tightly in scarves, coats, and jumpers that reminded him slightly of the Weasleys, and warmth uncurled in the cold place that had begun to settle inside him since his affliction while he watched them at play in the snow, as he had for several days since they had arrived. It was a piece of normality in all of the madness of late. 

They stopped every so often to wave to Harry as he watched them from the window. Effulgent sunlight caressed the bedroom, warming him as he observed the children. They had built a snowman complete with a lightning-bolt shaped scar, and it made Harry smile even more as he watched them run around, dodging snowballs until they tired. Soon the snowball fight resumed, and the longer Harry watched, the more he remembered being at Hogwarts. Before long, a dark-clad figure emerged from the back door, and the snowballs ceased flying. For a moment, all of the children stood still as though they expected Draco to castigate them for their fun, but he walked on towards what had once been the garage, seemingly ignoring them, and they exchanged looks that Harry understood all too well: mischief. He wasn’t sure that yelling Draco’s name would have prevented the impending attack, so he sat still and watched the madness unfold. A snowball was launched, and he watched as it hit Draco in the head, spattering his perfect hair with freezing lumps. The children stopped again, their faces red and uncertain as Draco turned to them slowly, a sneaky smile playing on his lips. He drew his wand, and for a moment, Harry worried that his Healer would curse one of them. Snow seemed to kick off the ground and race toward the five children, though; they squealed and fled their chilly assailant in plainly high spirits. Draco smiled, a rare, pleasant expression on his face, and continued his short trip to Mrs Prout’s living quarters.

It brought to a mind a time when Harry had pelted Draco with mud outside the Shrieking Shack, and he sighed, understanding more and more as the days progressed why Draco had hated him so much. Apart from the fact that Draco had reminded him of Dudley when they had first met in Madam Malkin’s shop, Harry had really had no reason to dislike the pointed blond. Yes, he had insulted Hagrid, but Harry’s age and experience gave him a lot more insight into whom Draco really had been – not who he was now. It was frustrating that of all the people Harry had met since he had arrived in the wizarding world, Draco seemed to be the one that had always seen him for just another boy – now a man – and maybe that explained why he could deal with his Healer’s emotional distance. Although that distance was beginning to chew at Harry’s insides as though he had been inhabited by some Muggle parasite. Even if his dreams hadn’t planted a fascination with Draco, Harry had already begun to experience the beginnings of true attraction to the blond. 

Having not seen Draco since he had finished breakfast, curiosity began to creep through Harry, and had him wondering what his Healer had been doing. He had no idea, and found himself mildly interested, if only as a means to keep his mind on something other than his infirmity. If the laughter of the children couldn’t keep him distracted, he wasn’t sure what could. But their presence made the house seem more alive, and Hightrees had felt like a tomb for weeks, so he wasn’t going to complain. Part of him resented that his children weren’t in the garden playing, but that had been Ginny’s fault, too. 

He had learned from Luna that his beloved had been taking contraceptive potions for years, and it made him angry to know that she had taken such measures without discussing having children with him. He had got over the fact that children probably weren’t in his future, but Ginny’s failure to be honest with him was just another reason he was grateful that their relationship was over. She had never said a thing about not having the same ideas as Harry, and he had thought all along that they had been going to create the family that he had always wanted, that she had seemed to want with him. He brushed the irritation aside easily enough, reminding himself that it was over, and there would be no going back. He returned his attention to the children, knowing that dwelling on things he couldn’t change would only make him to think about a past that he would much rather forget. Living at Hightrees was enough of a reminder of everything he had lost. 

Turning back to the children, he watched the youngest child duck a snowball, but one of her other siblings threw one at the same time; the missile landed on her head, sending bits of snow everywhere, and Harry laughed despite his maudlin thoughts, until a stabbing pain shot through his aching chest and it tightened as though a band had been wrapped around him, ready to snap, and he winced in discomfort.

Harry thought that he could deal with his lack of mobility, but the physical pain was irritating. 

“Teddy and Andromeda are here,” Draco said.

Harry hadn’t even heard the blond enter the room, but seeing the man brought a certain feeling of comfort to him. Draco was a constant in the unknown that Harry was inhabiting, and there was something about the cool distance his Healer maintained that he found oddly reassuring, but he’d never voice his feelings to the blond man; he was certain it would offend Draco’s sensibilities in some way.

Harry turned and smiled broadly. There was only a slight pause in the Healer’s progression forward, and Harry noticed it, wondering why. He mentally shrugged, deciding that it was best not to dwell on such things, and he took a moment to admire Draco. His cheeks were red with cold, and Harry found that he liked the way the blond looked when he was flushed, and an evanescent desire to see Draco’s face tinged with want seemed to course through his veins, his own cheeks colouring at the traitorous thought. “Thanks.” The blond turned to leave, but Harry stopped him by asking, “How did you get the snow?”

Draco turned and asked, “Does it matter? The important thing is that they've got it.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Harry said, following Draco from the room. The problem was that he was genuinely curious about the gesture, and the blond kept making Harry guess his intentions and motives at every turn, but it bothered him to know that there clearly was so much more to Draco that Harry had never cared to look at before. Now that he was looking, though, he wondered whether he would have ever attempted some sort of reconciliation with his Healer had the circumstances not required it. Knowing that he had a propensity for childish behaviour when it came to the blond, he realised that he probably never would have given Draco a chance had the circumstances not compelled him, and Hermione’s words echoed in his thoughts. He’s really changed since the war, Harry. Any doubt that may have been lingering was quashed with the revelation that Draco had repeatedly gone above and beyond the call of mere duty in regard to Harry’s health and well-being.

“Harry!” Teddy shouted, his face alight with the vivacity that Harry had come to know and love about the boy. He held a small package in his short fingers and placed it on the cushion beside him before he ran up to Harry, bouncing with excitement. 

“Hey, Teddy. Happy Christmas,” Harry said with a smile, and Teddy returned it fully, his eyes sparkling. 

“Happy Christmas!” He turned to look at Draco and stuck his tongue out as the Healer took a seat and crossed his legs as gracefully as ever, merely lifting an eyebrow in response to Teddy’s behaviour. “What did you get me?” the boy asked as he climbed into Harry’s lap. 

Harry chuckled and replied, “What makes you think I got you anything?”

“It’s Christmas!” Teddy said, turning to look at Harry in disbelief. “You have to get me something. Tell him, Draco!”

Draco started to reply, but Harry interrupted. “I haven’t forgotten you, Teddy.” 

“When can I open it?” he asked, looking from Harry to his grandmother.

“After lunch,” Draco interjected before anyone else could respond.

Teddy whinged, but Draco didn’t budge, and Andromeda agreed with her nephew – Harry had no reason to argue, so they chatted for a bit until Mrs Prout informed them that lunch was ready, and as Draco rose to retreat upstairs, Teddy slid from Harry’s lap and grabbed the blond’s hand. “Will you eat with us?”

“Yes, that would be lovely, Draco,” Andromeda added with a smile. “Won’t you join us?”

There was a moment where Harry thought that a refusal would follow Andromeda’s request to join them. He waited for it, and was truly surprised when Draco looked from Teddy to his Aunt slowly, seemingly evaluating his next course of action.

“Of course, Aunt Andromeda,” Draco replied, allowing Teddy to lead him to the dining room by his fingers.

Harry followed behind everyone else and noticed that Mrs Prout had laid an extra place setting already. Seats were taken after Teddy’s insistence that he sit between his godfather and Draco. Neither of the men argued over the arrangement, and once everyone had settled properly, they began to fill their plates with glazed ham, boiled potatoes, and cauliflower. 

Andromeda asked, “How’s your mother, Draco?” as she placed small portions on Teddy’s plate. 

“She was quite well the last time I saw her,” Draco replied.

Andromeda looked at him for a moment after laying down her fork and inquired, “And is Narcissa’s status likely to change?” 

Draco shrugged slightly and said, “She intends to visit Father.”

Andromeda nodded wisely, if a bit sorrowfully, and began to steer the conversation toward happier topics. Harry listened only half-heartedly as he thought about Draco’s mother visiting Lucius in Azkaban. He couldn’t imagine it being a terribly cheerful place to visit at Christmas, and Harry briefly wondered why Draco hadn’t made any plans to visit his father. It was perfectly understandable, to Harry’s mind, that the Healer see Narcissa on Boxing Day, but there was something nagging him about there having been no mention of the blond planning to see his father in Azkaban. Harry had always assumed that Draco worshipped the ground that Lucius Malfoy walked on, but he was beginning to see that he might have been wrong – about a lot of things. His Healer’s easy drawl brought Harry’s attention back to the present, and he often found himself fumbling for the right words throughout the remainder of the meal. More than once he had dropped his cutlery at one of Draco’s comments, but for the most part, he found himself completely enjoying their company. There was something about the controlled grace and subtle circumlocution in which Andromeda and Draco seemed to be so fluent that piqued Harry’s curiosity even more, and he made a point of observing more than actually speaking, knowing that he probably wouldn’t contribute much to the conversation anyway.

Teddy’s impatience at the conclusion of their meal saw them back to the sitting room, where the Christmas tree was bright with fairy lights, strings of garland, and baubles that he had inherited from friends and family over the years. For comfort, Harry decided to sit on the sofa, and he manoeuvred from his chair onto the soft cushions with Draco’s unprompted assistance. After he was settled quite comfortably with his head propped up on the pillows and his legs stretched out in front of him, his Healer left the room for a moment and returned with a comfortable blanket in his hands.

“Draco, I’m fine. I don’t need a blanket,” Harry protested, not wanting to appear as weak and vulnerable as he felt.

“Nonsense. The fireplace makes it draughty in here, and you don't want a chill settling into your muscles. Besides, Aunt Andromeda and Teddy will hardly take offense should you fall asleep. They know you need your rest.”

Uncertain of any reply that would win him the argument, Harry allowed the blanket to be tucked around his lifeless legs, and after he had made sure that his patient was comfortable, Draco took his usual seat and position: legs regally crossed, appearing as though he owned the room. As much as he hated to admit it, Harry realised that the way the blond took control of a room without ever saying a word was quite compelling, and he had to force himself not to stare in wonderment. 

Once Harry was settled, it didn’t take long for Teddy to resume his not-so-subtle reminders that he wanted his godfather to open the present he had brought. At the child’s insistence, Harry accepted the wrapped rectangle from his exuberant godson.

“Just a moment, Potter,” Draco said as Harry began to tear the paper.

“What?” Harry asked, looking up in confusion. Draco was already crossing the intervening distance before Harry had a chance to process what was going on.

“It’s magical. I can open it and hold it for you to see, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to handle it yourself.” 

“Okay,” Harry replied, handing the package to his Healer. 

The blond took it and removed the paper with the delicate precision of action that seemed to attach to everything else he did, and once it was clear of wrapping, he held it up for Harry to see. 

Harry smiled as he looked at the painting of him and Teddy together holding hands at Andromeda’s house. It was full of colour and life, and they moved around, Harry looking at Teddy and then at something else off to the left, but there was nothing on the edge of the painting. He was confused, and he looked up and smiled, “This is really good, Teddy.”

His attention was drawn to the painting again by movement, and he finally saw what his painting-self had been looking at: Draco. The blond was inching back toward the centre of the canvas, and the child’s painting-self took his hand, connecting the three of them like a small family. 

It was shocking to see, and as much as Harry would have liked to control his sputtering of surprise, he couldn’t, and that was all it took to make Draco actually look at the contents of the painting. His jaw set as the mask slipped into place and he said neutrally, “That’s very nice, Teddy,” but Harry wasn’t sure he saw it that way. He had paid enough attention to the blond lately to see when the change in his eyes occurred, as though a set of shutters had just closed in front of them, and he felt a pang of hurt. To him, Draco’s reaction implied that any kind of intimacy between them was completely out of the question. There was something in that which hurt Harry more than he could understand, and he was startled to realise that he cared so much about Draco’s reaction. 

He suddenly felt a bit odd – completely out of place in his own skin. Teddy had given him a gift that showed far more closeness between himself and Draco than he’d ever imagined – except in his dreams – and it was bloody frustrating to watch the other man walk away and take his seat again with only a slight reaction that Harry inferred to be negative.

As the daylight began to fade, Harry grew more fatigued. By the time Teddy and Andromeda prepared to leave, he knew that Ron, Hermione, and Luna would be calling shortly, and he found himself wishing that they had changed their minds. But he knew they wouldn’t, and he opened his eyes as Andromeda encouraged Teddy to get his things together. Draco still sat across the room, but Harry had been ignoring him, nodding in and out of wakefulness. He sat up long enough to give Teddy a hug, and bade Andromeda and his godson a Happy Christmas before settling on the sofa again. He watched as they left, but before they could leave the room, Teddy turned around and gripped Draco’s leg tightly in a hug, and Harry noticed the blond's barely perceptible wince. The reaction made Harry pause if only for a moment as he remembered gripping Draco’s leg in that same place earlier that day. But he never mentioned anything… Harry thought. He hasn’t said a word about me hurting him… 

Draco handed Andromeda their gifts, and walked them out, his robes the last thing Harry saw around the corner. He could hardly believe that Draco hadn’t made a point of chastising Harry for his recklessness, or otherwise blaming him for something that he hadn’t meant to do. He really has changed, Harry thought. He laid his glasses on the table beside the sofa, and closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would allow him a small reprieve from everything.  
~*~*~*~

 

When Harry woke, it was to the soft tune of Christmas carols still drifting through the house, and a lingering arousal from a dream he couldn't bring back to mind. Blinking a few times to orient himself, he reached for his glasses and slid them onto his face as he tried to sit up, failing miserably. He groaned in frustration as Draco walked through the sitting room, and their eyes met briefly, a silent plea for aid bringing the Healer closer to accord Harry his usual meticulous attentions.

Harry shifted before Draco could properly close the distance, and one of his legs hit the floor with a dull thud, sending an aching jolt of discomfort through his foot and ankle. The blanket Draco had tucked around him earlier was in disarray, and Harry hoped that the blond couldn’t see his obvious erection. “I was just coming to wake you,” Draco said. “It’s nearly dinner time.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, holding tightly as Draco helped him into a sitting position, then helped him stand on unsteady legs. In his carelessness, he bumped into Draco’s leg, and dragged his bottom lip between his teeth, his cheeks pinking with embarrassment, as he knew that the blond would not fail to recognise his arousal. Draco guided Harry to his chair, thankfully without comment, and when he was seated comfortably, Harry went to his room to freshen up a bit. 

After a difficult trip to the toilet, Harry heard Ron, Hermione, and Luna conversing in the sitting room, and he went to join them, happy that they had come to visit now that he was more rested. They smiled in greeting when he entered the room, but salutations were all they were able to get though before Mrs Prout announced that dinner was ready. Harry was still a bit full from lunch, but he followed the others and joined them at the table anyway.

The meal was fantastic as usual, and they all sat laughing and talking until finally Ron’s childish enthusiasm for opening gifts took over and they returned to the sitting room. “Go on, Harry, open mine now!” Ron said. 

“Ronald! It’s not Christmas yet,” Hermione said, and Harry laughed at their exchange. 

“It’s fine. I’ll open it now,” Harry said. 

“Don’t encourage him, Harry,” Hermione said.

Luna was investigating a stack of cards that Harry had received and began to place them on the mantle above the fireplace, brightening the room considerably. Harry hadn’t seen so much colour in his home since the previous year. 

“Fine,” Hermione said, exhaling loudly as she stood. “But save mine until tomorrow.” She handed him Ron’s gift and said, “I’m going to make some tea,” before departing, leaving Harry alone with Ron and Luna. 

“Go on, mate! You’ll love it!”

Ron’s enthusiasm was oddly infectious, so Harry ripped the paper on the small box, and looked at it with a passing fondness. His smile quickly faded, and it took some effort to tighten his muscles in order to maintain any semblance of the happiness he had felt only moments before. An amalgam of sadness and appreciation seemed to pulse within him. Harry appreciated Ron’s gesture, but it had also been callous on the redhead’s part, and seeing Witch Snitch emblazoned on the side of the small box, with three large W’s covering the multi-coloured surface, reminded him of everything he had lost: the ability to walk, Ginny, Quidditch, being useful. It took no small level of restraint in order to avoid clenching his jaw tightly or snapping at his best mate. He realised that Ron probably couldn’t understand what Harry had been dealing with since the onset of his illness, and his heart felt as though someone had squeezed it. It hurt more than he was willing to admit, and he wanted desperately to believe that his best mate hadn’t purposefully sought to remind him of his weakness – remind him how much he only felt like he was half a man. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron shifting in his childish excitement. He opened the lid and eyed the Golden Snitch that sat inside, reaching for it. He was glad that before he could touch it, the wings unfurled, and the golden ball zipped into the air. A flicker of hesitance wavered in the back of Harry’s mind, and he watched it for a moment. 

“It’s brilliant! When you catch it, it breaks into smaller Snitches and giggles like a girl. It keeps getting smaller and smaller until it explodes into fireworks,” Ron said excitedly.

“Ron… I don’t know—”

“Go on, then. Catch it,” the redhead goaded. It was so tempting…. All he would need to do is reach out and curl his fingers around it….

For old times' sake, Harry watched the ball dart around his head for a few moments, and as it neared arm’s length, he extended his hand, but stopped before he could close his fingers around it. Knowing that he would lose any trust he had already gained from Draco if he did something stupid, he lowered his hand to his lap and sighed. The little ball flitted away, circling Ron’s head. Clumsy fingers attempted to catch it, but the little ball was elusive, and Harry offered a stiff laugh at his friend’s difficulty. Ron’s arms were flailing wildly as he turned, trying to seize it from the air, and then Draco stepped through the doorway. Harry felt foolish then; if it hadn’t been for him opening the damned box to begin with, he wouldn’t have Draco staring at him as though he’d just used his wand – or worse. But Harry hadn’t done anything wrong. All he had done was open the stupid box, and before he could say anything, Draco seized Harry’s chair and shoved him from the sitting room, the door slamming behind them. A breath later, the door opened again to emit a furious redhead and a dizzy blonde. Ron looked like he was about to spit venom, but Draco’s voice sounded before he could say anything. 

“Weasley! What the hell are you doing?” Draco's inflection could have solidified mercury, and for once, Harry was glad that the arctic fury wasn’t directed toward him.

“Nothing! He just opened his present,” Ron snarled back.

“Nothing?” Draco spat. He turned to face Luna, who still held a handful of cards. "Of all people, Lovegood, you're the last I'd have expected to allow this bloody idiocy to go unchecked! You know how dangerous this is to Potter!" 

That Draco evidently seemed to think so highly of Luna surprised Harry. For all he was fond of her, he felt his face redden at his general lack of faith in her intellect.

Hermione returned, her face painted with confusion, and Harry looked around at his friends. Luna gave no reply, and Harry could tell that only angered Draco further, the ire evident in his expression. “Am I the only person in this house who gives a flying fuck whether he lives or dies? It seems that way altogether too often for my peace of mind!" The blond had obviously been goaded past endurance, because even Harry was aware that Draco wasn’t the same as he had been in his youth. He was much more controlled now, and to see him visibly angry and yelling was incontrovertible proof of his complete loss of patience with Ron. 

“Oi! His bloody wheelchair is magical, Malfoy,” Ron exploded, his face reddening.

"His wheelchair's magic is internalised, you unspeakable cretin!" Draco shouted. “And there's a mechanical one in the cellar in case the magical one starts affecting him. None of which in any way alters the fact that you - for the sake of fun and gig - put your supposed best friend's life in danger! Is it really so much to ask that you at least attempt to exercise a little commonsense?” Draco took a step forward.

“Draco!” Harry tried, hoping to distract the blond. “Calm down! Ron, shut up and sit down,” Harry called, hoping that they would both stop yelling. Harry was glad to see Draco’s old explosive side, but not at this cost, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before fists started flying. Hermione tried to position herself between Ron and Draco, but the blond wouldn’t stay still, so she turned to Ron instead. Her voice was stern as she tried to talk some sense into Ron – although siding with Draco was admittedly the worst thing she could have done in that moment, to Harry’s mind – and he noticed that Ron was gearing up for one of his usual ‘but it’s Malfoy’ speeches. 

Draco’s expression obviated the need for Ron to voice his opinion, and in a withering tone, he snarled, "If you don't know what the effect of an action or object is going to be, ask someone who bloody does!"

"But you don't either, Malfoy. You're just playing at it. You don't even like Harry, so shut your bloody mouth!" 

Ron’s words only served to make Draco angrier, and the blond visibly appeared incandescent as his nostrils flared; his lips thinned until they were a taut, pale-pink line across his fair face. Harry approached the blond slowly, reaching out to take Draco’s arm. It was obvious that neither of the men was going to back down, and Harry gripped his Healer's sinewy wrist firmly, trying to hold Draco back. But the blond wasn’t having any of that and he attempted to pull away, hitting his patient in the nose with his elbow when he shook his arm free. Instinct forced Harry to relinquish his hold on the blond’s arm as he attempted to shield his face from further harm. In turn, Ron reached for his wand, and the fiery redhead nearly knocked his wife over trying to bowl his way to the Healer. 

“Draco, stop! This isn’t going to help anything!” Harry tried, but his plea was futile. He only caught a glimpse of Draco turning to face him, a mixture of anger and concern flashing in his eyes before both were soon gone and the usual mask was in place once again. “Ron! Put your bloody wand away!” Harry hoped that appealing to Ron’s occasional good sense – however in short supply it was – might force both men to see reason. Neither of the men was listening, though. Incensed, Harry reached out and took Draco’s wrist again. He hadn’t felt any blood from his nose, and there wasn’t enough pain to make him believe that it was broken; it was merely sore, and a dull ache throbbed beneath the cartilage. 

“Ron, he’s right. I told you not to bring that Snitch. Don’t you ever think?” Hermione demanded. 

“But, ’Mione—”

“Just shut it!” Hermione commanded. “Are you trying to kill Harry?”

Harry felt like he was in school again – only he couldn’t do anything. He was confined to the stupid bloody wheelchair as his best mate and his Healer tried to kill one another, and Harry was bloody grateful that he hadn’t touched the damned Snitch. He could already imagine the scathing lecture and cold grey eyes that would no doubt have made him feel completely inept.

Draco was still trying to pull away from the vice-like grip holding him, and between adrenaline and frustration, Harry held so tight to his Healer’s wrist that as Draco attempted to yank his arm free from Harry’s tightly curled fingers, he slid forward in the chair. His heart stuttered for a moment, and his stomach plummeted in fear. With his free hand, Harry grabbed at the sturdy chair arm, but just as he was about to collapse to the floor, Draco turned and curled a steady arm around his patient, steadying him. Harry was shaking with frustration, and after he was firmly seated again, the chair shifted a little as his Healer settled Harry into it, and his robe got caught in the wheel. 

Harry followed the blond’s gaze and realised that Draco’s robe was snagged, and he sighed, trying to adjust the wheel’s position, but it only made the knot of fine fabric around the spokes worse. Harry looked up, his eyes questioning what he was supposed to do. There was no reply to his unspoken question; instead, Draco began to unbutton his robes, exposing his fine shirt and the breeches clinging perfectly to his tall frame. To Harry, he looked like a noble in his almost anachronistic raiment. The black material slid from Draco’s squared shoulders, and he unwound the fabric as Harry watched, unable to do anything. Once the cloth was free, Draco quickly went upstairs; the only sound following his retreat was the sharp bang of the bedroom door. 

“You are such a prat, Ronald.” 

Hermione quickly chased after Draco, and Ron took a seat on the hall table, nonplussed. “What the bloody hell was that? He really just took off his robes, and he even…” Ron stopped, his face a mask of confusion. “He doesn’t take any bloody chances with you, does he?” he remarked in total mystification. “You weren’t going to fall! I saw it.”

No reply was necessary, as Harry knew that Ron had been too engaged in his stupidity to have really noticed how close he had come to ending up in the floor. Instead of saying anything that could further upset the delicate balance of the room, Harry opted to remain silent. 

Ron continued nattering on about something, but Harry ignored him pointedly, and when Hermione returned, he looked up expectantly, hoping for some sort of confirmation that Draco was okay. 

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. Harry knew that meant he wouldn’t see Draco again until it was time for bed. “And you! How could you do something so stupid?” she demanded, facing Ron.

“It was just a bit of fun—”

“I don’t care!” she interrupted. “You could have killed him. You’re just lucky that Harry had enough sense not to touch it. Ronald— we’re leaving. Harry’s had enough for one day.”

“Is that what he said?” Ron challenged, his voice breaking when he emphasised his reference to Draco. 

“No, that’s what I’m saying.” Hermione’s face looked like a block of stone – hard and unyielding – and Harry almost felt like he wasn’t seeing a friend he’d known for over a decade. 

“Harry?” Ron queried, seemingly expecting Harry to offer some sort of sympathy. 

“I’m tired. You should— have a good Christmas, yeah?” Harry really wanted to sympathise with Ron, only he couldn’t, and his emotions were already running high as he tried to digest Draco’s outburst: it had been completely incongruous with his usual reserved manner. 

“Oh, bollocks. I’m sorry, yeah! It’s bloody Malfoy…”

“Ron, let’s go,” Hermione interrupted, grabbing her things. “Harry, your present is under the tree. We’ll see you next week.”

“Thanks, Hermione. Happy Christmas,” he said, returning the fierce hug she had given him as she walked toward the door. 

Luna decided to depart when Ron and Hermione did, so she, too, gave Harry a hug and even a brief kiss on the cheek before leaving. He let out a long sigh as he heard the front door close, leaving him in peace, and he made his way to his bedroom.

He had just closed the door and made it to his wardrobe to search for a change of clothes when the sound of light knocking stole his attention. A spark of hope had him wondering if he would see Draco on the other side of the door, so since he hadn’t settled in bed yet, he opened the door. Mrs Prout stood with a cold compress in her hands. 

“Harry, Mr Malfoy asked me to bring you this – for your nose.”

“Thank you, Mrs Prout,” Harry said with a smile. 

“Good night, dear.”

“Good night, Mrs Prout.”

After taking a long, relaxing bath with the compress covering his nose, he waited for Draco. But as he was too tired to stay awake, he left the bath after dressing comfortably in a soft pair of pyjama pants and lay in bed. He closed his eyes, thankful that the day was over, and drifted off to sleep. It wasn’t long before he heard Draco’s voice, and he knew it was either morning, or the blond had finally come to do his stretches for the evening. Oddly enough, Harry had assumed he wouldn’t see the blond again for the rest of the night, but he couldn’t help the odd smile that spread on his face at the sight of the pale face. 

“Stretches?” Harry asked sleepily.

“Yes, Potter.”

“I’m ready,” Harry said lifting his arms over his head, loosening his muscles. His shirt rose slightly, exposing his stomach, and he brought his arms back down, righting the fabric. His chest still hurt quite a bit, but at least he could reach above his head without the pain in his ribs: he could categorise that as a vast improvement over barely being able to lift his arms comfortably. 

Draco set to work, and Harry, while still not entirely sure what Draco’s reaction to Teddy’s painting had meant, still found himself eying the blond with greater appreciation as he worked. He knew there was nothing sexual about the way the blond was touching him, but he wondered if… Would he want to do the things that their dream-selves had done – with him? He couldn’t help but think about it, especially when a coil of heat began low in his stomach and spread out, making him keenly aware of the beginnings of an erection underneath the meticulous and careful attentions of his Healer’s hands. 

“I didn’t touch that Snitch,” Harry said after a moan of absolute relaxation made him tense. He wasn’t used to being so careless with his appreciation, and it was as much surprising to him as it was comforting in a strange way. He was starting to drop his guard around Draco, and that could be a good or bad thing, only he wasn’t sure which it was. “I mean, I wanted to, but… Merlin, that feels fantastic,” Harry whispered with another low moan. “Sorry.” He couldn’t help it, and there was just something about the way Draco’s hands slid over his legs, almost tenderly, working every knot of tension from him, because even though he couldn’t walk, his muscles still tensed and relaxed, and he’d noticed that after especially long days, it was always worse, that made him feel good. And following the evening’s events, he was glad to be done with it all. 

Draco looked at him, a slow blink covering his brilliant grey eyes, and Harry blushed under the scrutiny, but he never faltered under the blond’s gaze. He knew his erection was quite visible, but he couldn’t help it, and he really wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue to be shy when Draco was always around, always checking something, always catching him at the oddest times. If nothing else, he was certain his privacy had completely gone out the window the night Draco had burst in on him trying have a good wank. 

“I see the ice helped,” Draco said, turning Harry on his side. With Draco’s hands so close to his erection, he couldn’t stop his cock from bouncing, and he decided it was best to ignore his desires in favour of treading a path that wouldn’t make things more difficult between him and the blond. He was well aware that things didn’t always go according to plan, and when Draco re-positioned Harry, he tried to remain engaged in the conversation for as long as possible.

“Yeah. Thanks for that. That bony elbow of yours hurt like hell, though,” Harry said with a wry chuckle after a few moments of silence. “I know Ron’s a git, but he’s just being—”

“Careless?” Draco interrupted.

“No, I was going to say a Weasley. He’s got a good heart… he just doesn’t always realise what he’s doing. He didn’t do it on purpose,” Harry said, hoping that Draco would understand.

“Much like your beloved?” he inquired coolly without pause in the routine.

Draco’s words stung more than Harry wanted to admit. He knew that his relationship with Ginny hadn’t been perfect, but to have the blond point it out so clearly hurt. He wanted to believe that Draco’s intent hadn’t been to hurt him, but to remind him that intentions, no matter how good, weren’t always enough, and he opted for ignoring it. 

“So when you asked about ‘MDm’, does that mean you think there’s something in the field reports that can help?”

“Yes. Can you recall the Aurors who were with you on those missions?”

“Yeah, it was usually me and Ron — a few others. Always the same team unless someone was injured.” Harry closed his eyes and bit his lip, attempting to stifle the involuntary moan of appreciation lodged in his throat.

“I can’t extract your memories – that would be too dangerous for you. I will, however, need Weasley’s. If I can see the spells, I should be able to identify them, and since it is apparently perfectly acceptable for members of the Auror Division to be unable to indentify Dark Magics, I may as well catalogue them for the Divison's future reference." 

“He’ll help,” Harry said. “He’s stubborn, but he’ll help.”

“I will begin with that after the New Year. I’ll be scheduling a Muggle scan at Guy’s Hospital first,” his Healer replied, releasing him.

Draco straightened as usual and helped Harry settle beneath the covers before thumbing the switch on the lamp beside the bed. And as usual, Draco began to leave without saying a word, and Harry said, “Good night, Draco,” as the door closed softly. 

“I must be mad,” he said to the dark room, and as much as he wanted not to, he ignored his erection, closing his eyes, and willing sleep.  
~*~*~*~

 

Morning suffused a radiant glow of orange and yellow across the wall of Harry’s bedroom, painting the plain white surface with life. He woke, squinting to shield his eyes from the brightness and felt a smile curl at his lips. An effervescent giddiness took hold of him as he stretched, and he reached for his glasses. Once he could see, he went to the bathroom to relieve his bladder, and went to change clothes. He was sliding one foot into his jeans when Draco entered, and instead of speaking, the blond helped Harry finish dressing, much to his embarrassment. Thankfully his dreams had given him a short reprieve from his subconscious desires, and it was getting easier by the day to accept Draco’s help and presence. He was even beginning to enjoy Draco’s company, however brief it usually was. He was certain if he shared those thoughts with his friends that like the previous night, Ron would stare at him in incredulity, and Hermione would lecture him in some form, but he wasn’t concerned with that. When Draco nodded and began to leave, Harry followed, his actual desire for food having fully returned. 

Breakfast was fabulous, and he savoured each bite until Draco came to fetch him for stretches. Harry didn’t know why he felt so good, but he wasn’t going to question it in favour of enjoying his first real taste of happiness since everything had happened. He was too engrossed in feeling to think, and when Draco began with Harry’s stretches that morning, he felt more relaxed than he ever had. “When do you open your presents?” he asked, wondering if he could convince Draco to join him.

Draco looked at him for a moment, his face unreadable, and Harry said, “It’s just that… I haven’t opened presents alone since I was eleven, and I was—I was wondering if you’d…” Harry stopped. He felt ridiculous asking this of Draco, especially when the chance that he would reject him outright would hurt more than he wanted to admit. 

“Eloquent as always, Potter. We always open our presents after Christmas dinner.”

“Right, so…”

“After dinner,” he replied as he left the room. 

Harry could only take that as Draco agreeing to join him – he hadn’t said no, after all – and a smile spread across his face, and a feeling of warmth filled him. 

The day moved quickly, almost too quickly for Harry’s tastes, because he was oddly nervous to be sharing opening his presents with Draco. If anyone had told him that he’d be spending Christmas with the blond at all, he’d have called them mad, but there was a part of him that was looking forward to it. And he couldn’t find any fault in the desire to spend more time around Draco – not really. Sure, he was like a statue most of the time, but the brief glimpses of the man behind the mask were well worth it. Harry had been paying attention to the little nuances that made the blond unique, even if he couldn’t make heads or tails of most of the small tells. About the only time it was absolutely clear what the blond was feeling was when Draco was truly angry about something. 

Harry spent the time before dinner reading, working on puzzles, watching the children play in the charmed snow, and replying to the large stack of post that had accumulated. When Mrs Prout entered the conservatory, Harry hadn’t even noticed how late it was. As he made his way to the dining room, he bade Mrs Prout ‘Happy Christmas’ and looked at the variety of foods on the dining table. He exhaled, enjoying the scents that washed over him, and as he settled in a seat, Draco entered the room. 

“Happy Christmas, Draco,” Harry said with a grin. 

“And you, Potter,” he replied, his eyes scanning the table. The blond’s scrutiny of meals, Harry had come to learn, was all about making sure that his nutritional needs were being met. 

“Draco,” Harry began, uncertain if he should try his luck for a second time, “will you—” He paused and looked at the blond. “I’d like you to stay and eat with me.”

Draco took a moment and said, “As you wish,” and took a seat at the second place setting, and Harry smiled as the blond unfolded his napkin elegantly and placed it in his lap. The assumption that leapt to Harry’s mind was that Mrs Prout had laid the setting after having seen the blond dine with Andromeda and Teddy the previous day, or that she had been asked to place it. Whichever it was, Harry wasn’t going to complain about having someone to share Christmas dinner with. Harry noticed that Draco wasn’t wearing his robes, and he found himself watching the crisp shirt clinging to Draco’s frame perfectly. This is not the time for this, Harry chided himself. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, looking down with a smile. “What is all this?” he asked, hoping that quickly changing the subject would keep Draco from sitting like a statue through the whole meal, or at least hide his obvious appreciation for the blond. 

“It’s Christmas dinner, Potter, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Um, yeah, but… This is a lot of food.”

Draco shrugged and began selecting from the many bowls and plates spread out over the table’s wide surface. Harry was too hungry to delay eating any longer, so he selected a bit from each platter. There was lobster, pheasant, and snipe – delicacies he had only ever seen photos of in the past, and all of it tasted wonderful. His entire mouth exploded with the flavours, and he stuffed himself on each morsel, not wasting a bite. He couldn’t help watching Draco, though, and he noticed that the blond only picked at his food, little bits from one plate, a small portion from another, and he nearly dropped whatever utensil was in his hand the first time he watched Malfoy’s tongue swirl around a bit of lobster on the edge of his fork. The man made eating look like a bloody sex act, and it was affecting Harry more than he thought it should. For the first time, Harry consciously acknowledged to himself that Draco really was quite sensual in all his inherent grace.

“You aren’t eating much,” Harry observed between bites. 

“There’s no reason to gorge, Potter.”

“Oh,” Harry replied, watching as Draco took small bites. “You’re used to this, though, aren’t you? You must have had meals like this all the time at home… Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. He wasn’t sure what to say to Draco, and that unnerved him slightly. 

Their conversation ended, and once Harry had eaten his fill, they left the table together in silence. Harry tried to hide his excitement, but he couldn’t. Draco left the room for a moment, and music began to play throughout the house again as Harry reached for presents. Merlin, he was anxious. He’d never really worried about a present for someone as much as he was worried about Draco’s, and as he strained to reach the boxes on the floor, he reached a small, flat package on the top. In an elegant script it read:   
To: Not A Very Nice Person  
From: Pans 

 

Harry had to laugh. “Are you ‘Not A Very Nice Person’?” Harry asked, still chuckling.

“That would be Pansy’s idea of a joke,” Draco said, returning with a Muggle Dictaphone. “I’ll get these, Potter.” 

Harry just smiled as he moved toward the sofa and transferred for comfort. Draco brought him his presents and rested them on the cushions beside Harry. Before returning to the chair that he always seemed to claim in the sitting room, he stopped at the mantle to observe the many cards that Luna had placed the previous night. “You can put yours up, too,” Harry said, noting where the grey eyes had fixed.

“That’s quite all right, Potter,” Draco said as he sat and crossed his legs elegantly.

“You should. I don’t mind. You live here, too.”

Harry almost expected Draco to rebuff him again, but he stood and arranged a few elaborate cards beside the ones already in place. One, Harry noticed, was upside down, and he tilted his head to the side in curiosity. “Why is that one upside down?”

“It’s a Slytherin tradition,” Draco replied, his tone indicative of finality. 

Harry wasn’t satisfied, though; he wanted to know more. “Really? That almost seems normal. Slytherins always seemed so…” Harry stopped, unsure if he wanted to continue. Evil, devious, diabolic… He didn’t want to show how ignorant he truly was to the inner workings of Draco’s former Hogwarts House.

“We were young once, too, Potter.”

“Yeah, I suppose. But why upside down?” Harry asked again. 

Draco looked at Harry for a moment, his lip twitching briefly. “Flint got in the way of a Levicorpus. It fit.”

Harry’s cheeks rose in response. He feared he’d never stop being surprised by the things he had always taken for granted, like that innocence that so many of his friends and school mates had lost during the war. He tried to shrug those thoughts away; thinking about the past, he had come to learn, only made the present more difficult to handle in some regards.

Harry looked at Draco as he carefully tore the paper from the package that Harry had handed him. 

“Pansy: a bookmark,” Draco said to the Muggle Dictaphone. 

“What’s that for?” Harry asked, curious. He had never seen anyone so methodical about opening their gifts before.

“Thank you notes, Potter,” he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry felt silly for having asked, and he wondered if it was some sort of tradition before he recalled that Draco had impeccable manners, even if Harry hadn't seen evidence of them in school. Knowing that he couldn’t possibly live up to the same standards, Harry shrugged it off and tore open his package with the same youthful glee he always had, and with each gift, his heart swelled happily. 

“Krum…”

“You’re still in contact with Viktor Krum?” Harry asked curiously.

“Slytherin House spent a lot of time with the students from Durmstrang,” Draco replied.

“Oh.”

Among the presents, there was one with more expensive paper than the others, and he looked at it curiously as he read the tag. It was from Draco, and Harry couldn’t help the odd feeling of delight that burst within him as he touched the paper and ripped it away quickly to show a thick leather binding. He opened the cover to find a folio of fine vellum pages ready and waiting to be written on. He smiled softly at the gesture, remembering Draco’s comment about him writing something authoritative about his life, and a strange warmth settled over him.

Harry said, “Thank you, Draco.” He smiled. “It’s very nice. Maybe I should try to write something.”

Draco nodded in response.

He continued through his gifts, and he picked up a box from the Weasleys. He was hesitant to open it, but he ploughed on and opened the box. Inside was a Weasley jumper, the same as always, with Harry’s initial kitted on the front, and he felt his heart swell with delight. He had been certain that they would never speak with him again for throwing Ginny out, but here they had proved that they still loved him – considered him family – and it felt fantastic. 

There was only one package left, and Harry stared at it, already familiar with the paper: it was the same every year. Hermione and Ron must have brought it with them. He shook his head and said, “Unbelievable, Ginny,” with a scoff. 

“What’s the matter, Potter? You don’t want to open your beloved’s offering?” Draco’s expression was flat, but there was something in the tone that struck Harry. The slight dip in the smooth drawl was hard to identify, but he had heard it.

“No, thanks. Do you mind? Getting rid of it, that is?”

“Certainly,” the blond replied with a look in his eye that both scared and excited Harry. 

Draco took the package from him and left the room. Harry heard the front door open and close, and he strained to look through the large window in the sitting room to see what Draco was doing. He watched the blond pull his wand after placing the tawdrily wrapped gift on the ground and point at it. The hawthorn wood wand arched elegantly, weaving a complicated pattern in the air, and a bright light spilled forth, engulfing the package until it seemed to bleed and finally vanished in a brilliant explosion. It made him oddly tingly inside to see that side of Draco, and it was then that he realised how dangerous the blond really was – how much knowledge and potential he held. Inside, Harry felt as though the complete obliteration of the package was a protective gesture on Draco’s part, and it made Harry’s cock stir with definite interest. 

The sound of the door opening and closing brought Harry back, and as Draco returned to his seat, Harry said, “You know, I’m quite glad that you and I never duelled after the second year. That looked entirely too easy for you.”

“Perhaps. I detest physical violence, though. The sound of breaking bones and cartilage makes me want to vomit,” Draco said, and Harry remembered their encounter on the Hogwarts Express in his sixth year clearly, but the blond continued before he could even raise that as an issue. “I threw up twice after breaking your nose, and it still makes me a bit queasy to think of it now. Not that you didn’t deserve it then. Skulking about in other people’s business was hardly very endearing, Potter.”

“I was right, though, that you were up to something. No one believed me about that.”

“Pity.”

“It’s in the past. Ever—” Harry sighed. “Everyone did things then. It was a war. I don’t blame you for what you did – not now. I used to, but I’d have tried to protect my mother, too,” Harry said. He wanted to show that he understood that Draco had made sacrifices, that he understood tough decisions had been forced on everyone by the war and the madness that had plagued all of them. No one had been left untouched by Voldemort in the end.

Draco didn’t reply, and Harry watched the blond returned to his gifts without so much as a second glance in his direction. 

Draco’s quiet presence wasn’t all bad, and even though Harry had barely got him to talk, he really was enjoying having someone to share Christmas with. It still stung a bit that he should have been married to Ginny, spending the time with her, but he tried to set those thoughts aside, knowing that he would end up driving himself mad. He looked at the photos of himself and Teddy from last Christmas that Andromeda had sent, and it made him smile as he remembered that time and how free he had been – how whole he had been. It had been easy to ignore Draco’s drawl as he opened his gifts, but there was something about the way he heard ‘Potter’ that made him look up. In his Healer’s hands was the one thing that Harry had fretted over until he had finally received a response, unsure if he actually would. Draco hadn’t actually opened the envelope yet, so Harry attempted to explain why he appeared not to have put any thought or effort into a proper gift.

“Um, listen,” Harry said as Draco began to lift the flap of the envelope. “My present isn't something in a box, but I hope it'll mean as much to you as it would to me. Your wand... hasn't been right since I gave it back. You've said so yourself. I... Merlin, Draco, I hope you don't hate me for this; it didn't occur to me until now that you might, but... I wrote to him – Ollivander,” Harry said, trying to steady his speech. He was oddly out of breath, and he hoped that Draco wouldn’t be cross with him. “I asked him if he'd be willing to make one for you. One that works right. See, I learned a bit of wand lore that year. I don't think your wand ever responded to you the way it should have. I wouldn't have been able to take it so easily and make it work for me so easily if it'd been bonded to you properly in the first place. You didn't pick it, did you? I mean, it didn't pick you. Your mum bought it for you while you were at Malkin’s, right?”

Harry waited, and Draco offered a brief nod of his head and said, “Thank you, Potter,” before standing gracefully and adding, “Excuse me.”

Harry watched as the blond left the room, feeling confused. He wondered if he had done something wrong by contacting Ollivander. Why else would Draco leave so quickly? He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, and felt himself growing tired from all the food and festivities. It was late, so he moved to his chair and went to the bedroom and lay down after changing into his pyjamas. Long after Draco had completed the usual routine, Harry fell asleep, thinking about Draco, about Ginny, and about how attracted he was beginning to feel toward the blond. Everything became soft and glowing as he drifted into sleep.

Draco’s lips tasted like brandy, and Harry had no problem trying to savour it in each heated press of them against his. Strong, pale arms were holding Harry’s above his head, and narrow hips pressed between the juncture of Harry’s thighs, a strained thrust pushing their erections tightly together. Harry was so hard he could barely breathe. Those warm, calloused fingers left a trail of fire as they passed over Harry’s naked skin almost reverently, and he lifted his hips to meet Draco’s. 

“You’re mine, Potter,” the blond said, releasing his hold on the tense arms of the man beneath him, his voice a low growl against Harry’s throat as Draco sank his teeth into the taut flesh. Merlin, he loved hearing Draco say his name. If sounds could take physical effect, Harry was certain that his entire body would just have been caressed by the word, and it made him tremble with abandon.

Unabashedly, his hands roamed over the pale skin of the blond’s chest, tracing the contours of the livid scars marring the blond’s skin as Draco pulled away. Their bodies lost contact for only a moment, and then one of Draco’s hands disappeared between Harry’s spread legs. Fingers slick with oil pushed into him, and it was hot and fucking brilliant as every nerve in his body waited for each touch as if his throat were parched and he was drinking cool water. He was writhing and moaning when the blond finally removed his fingers and lifted Harry’s legs to his shoulders. Draco slowly pushed inside Harry’s arse, and he melted against the bedding, his back bowed and stomach sticky, begging the blond to continue, to go deeper. 

Each inch forced Harry open, and he groaned loudly as Draco finally stopped when his cock was fully buried inside Harry’s body. It started slowly with the blond pulling back and thrusting almost lazily until Harry’s nails began to tear the pale skin, begging for more. He didn’t know what to do. Each thrust grew faster and faster until Harry felt like he was going to fall apart, and Merlin, he wanted that. Fuck, he needed to fall apart, because he knew that Draco would be there to put him back together again, and with each violent thrust, he drew closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. 

“Mine,” Draco growled again, his voice low and tantalising to Harry as he panted helplessly. 

“Yes,” Harry finally managed, and his cock was achingly hard again. His reply was a surrender to pleasure, surrender to sensation. He didn’t need to touch himself; he felt himself on the precipice of madness just from the way the other man reached inside him and twisted his uncertainty into complete acceptance. Draco leant forward and kissed him brutally, and the blond continued with long, deep strokes that left Harry completely incoherent. All that mattered were the possessive growls and his name on Draco’s tongue as he came, covering his hand and stomach with hot come; he felt each pulse of Draco’s orgasm inside him, and it was light and fire and overwhelming. 

Harry woke with a moan, and he felt the wet stickiness in his pyjamas, but he didn’t care. His cock was achingly hard, and he slid his pyjamas off his hips and fisted it until he came, groaning loudly to images of Draco fucking him, claiming him, giving him more pleasure than he’d ever known. There was a part of him that knew, or suspected, that his newfound attraction was going to be a lot of trouble, but he was willing to risk it, especially when he’d never dreamt of Ginny in such a way, or when he’d never had much of a sex drive until Draco had come back into his life. He felt that it was almost cruel that he’d be so fascinated with the other man, but he decided that thinking about his attraction to the other too hard wasn’t worth it, and he enjoyed the post-coital bliss that swelled around him.

No longer sensate, he lay in bed, his heart beating a painful rhythm against his chest. When he had caught his breath, he eased himself out of bed and cleaned up. It took him a bit longer than usual to get out of bed, but he fought hard, knowing that he couldn’t give up, no matter how much the traitorous craven part of his mind insisted that he should. Tired be damned. His thoughts were flying faster than a Firebolt, and a faint feeling of sadness crept through him. It was slow at first, a brief tickle of doubt that expanded until his thoughts were consumed by reality. It was as though everything in his life had finally hit some invisible barrier, and he was trapped in his own personal Azkaban. Thinking about Ginny, watching Draco, and seeing Ron and Hermione together had forced him to acknowledge insecurities, desires, and weaknesses that he had wanted to believe would remain in the recesses of his mind, never manifesting. Only those feelings and thoughts were all-important now; every minor muscle spasm, or slight weakness that he had felt was beginning to feel heavier than Slytherin’s Locket had, and the reality that he was crippled, and could quite possibly be for the rest of his life, hit him like a Bludger to the stomach. Maybe it was the increasing sluggishness of his arms, or his reaction to Ron’s carelessness, or the realisation that he was starting to feel more than a patient should for their Healer, he didn’t know. All he knew was that some days it took longer to push himself out of bed, or that apart from Draco, he really didn’t have anyone around. Ron and Hermione had their own lives. Luna, for all her eccentricities, had her husband and life, and Harry had no one. He looked around the darkened room, his eyes darting back and forth, seeking an exit that he knew didn’t exist, a way to get away from his circumstances, a way to feel like he had some sort of control over what was happening to him, but there was nothing. He had nothing. 

For the first time since he had been confined to the wheelchair, the hope that he had been holding tightly to that he would walk again began to fade, and he wondered if he would always be alone, whether he would meet anyone who could accept what he had become and not expect what he had been before the illness. He knew it was best not to think too far into the future, but he didn’t want to be alone. He had spent so much of his youth scorned and treated as an outcast, and it seemed like just as everything he had always wanted had finally been within his reach, it had been ripped away as quickly as water doused a flame.

He had no idea what his life would be like once Draco figured out what was wrong with him, and it scared him to think that he might not walk again, that he might remain a shadow of his former self, once the underlying problem was discovered. If it is ever discovered, he thought resentfully. Fresh pyjamas donned, Harry lay down again and closed his eyes, failing miserably at falling asleep. All he could do was look at the dark ceiling almost in a daze. He felt heavy, and his first tears of self-pity welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheek, dropping into his ear. He didn’t even bother reaching to wipe them away. 

Eyes held tightly shut, he let his chest shake until his body no longer forced the evidence of his true feelings and doubt into the open. Sometime later, the bedroom door opened to admit Draco for his first round. Harry hoped that he was faking well enough to appease the Healer’s observations. He could hear Draco’s movements around the room, and tried to refrain from stiffening as he sensed the blond draw closer to the bed. The other man was nearly silent, almost a ghost, and Harry’s raging pulse began to return to normal. He sighed lightly and shifted for comfort, his mind slowly beginning to shut down, possibly overwhelmed by everything. The cold darkness slowly became the ethereal warmth of his dreams. 

To Be Continued…


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Through Clouded Eyes He Sees

 

The letter that Potter had given Draco from Ollivander sat on his bedside table, its edges crooked like a beckoning finger, almost summoning his attention as though the parchment had been bewitched. It was a whimsical assessment of the paper, but it struck him nonetheless. Speculation regarding Potter’s intentions ran through his thoughts, but he reminded himself that the Saviour was incapable of the sort of guile required for setting Draco up to fall, so Potter’s fumbling explanation had probably been sincere – odd though it seemed to Draco. He had to concede that it was a present that Potter had obviously put some thought into, and the Healer appreciated his having contacted Ollivander – a new wand would be very useful. It was Potter-like to the last detail. That the man felt the need to offer grandiose gestures was marginally irritating, but Draco had found that was just how Potter was. There was no half-way with him, even in conversation: speaking to him more than only when propriety and his professional obligation demanded it had proven that the man had no concept of personal boundaries. Potter seemed wholly incapable of carrying a conversation that didn't pry into Draco's personal concerns, and experience had taught him not to be the sort of man to share himself lightly. He could - and did - fence with the best of them, without ever dropping his guard, and he would never be the one from whose lips empty romantic promises dripped like dew from a snowdrop, even in seduction. 

Moonlight filtered across the duvet, and Draco turned again, closing his eyes. A few hours - it only seemed like minutes, some days - remained before he would have to check on his patient again. Forcing his thoughts to slow, to forget that he had to find answers that were eluding him, he fell asleep. Three hours later, the chimes of Draco’s alarm sounded, and he woke quickly, blinking a few times to clear his vision. He got up and put on his shirt, covering himself with his dressing gown before padding downstairs. There was always a soft susurration as the wood of the door travelled over the carpet when it opened, but it never seemed to disturb his patient, and he moved toward the bed, watching his patient feign sleep: the edges of his eyes appeared pinched against his gaunt face, and his entire body was stiff. Draco moved away from the bed slightly, and watched Potter finally relax, releasing a soft sigh.

He left the room quietly, and headed back upstairs, picking up his quill and Potter’s record when he arrived, and jotting down a quick note about the change in sleeping patterns. Draco was well aware that Potter’s ex-fiancée sending a present to him had been upsetting to his patient, and he had taken a certain amount of pleasure in being able to destroy the unfaithful tart's offering. He would have to watch Potter more closely for any changes. He had been adjusting quite well up to this point, their old acerbic exchanges having seemed to have become non-existent. 

Draco removed his shirt and dressing gown and lay back down. He closed his eyes again, trying to clear his thoughts. He only had a few hours before he had to get up again and check on Potter, and he needed all of his mental faculties for the remaining tests on the man’s bone marrow.   
~*~*~*~

 

Morning came sooner than Draco would have liked, and he showered and dressed comfortably in a shirt and trousers. It was impractical, he had realised, to wear robes around Potter’s chair, and following straightening the collar of his shirt, he went downstairs to rouse his patient. Before waking Potter, Draco took a moment to watch the dark-haired man from the doorway. Soft murmurs fell from half-parted lips between slow, even breaths. Pale sunlight stretched across the floor and bed, highlighting Potter’s face, and the man lay sleeping deeply, his arms akimbo at odd angles, his shirt riding up his stomach, exposing the trail of dark hair that led to his groin. Draco had to admit that despite his infirmity, Potter was attractive – not that that was remotely relevant, in the light of the fact that Potter was his patient. He reined in his thoughts, quashing any further conjecture with a stiff reminder that it would be a gross breach of appropriate conduct to enter into a sexual relationship with any witch or wizard under his care, and he simply would not abuse a patient. 

After less fuss than usual, Draco left Potter to dress, having watched him sluggishly drag himself to the edge of the bed and finally transfer into his chair. He had suspected that Potter had been growing weaker after seeing how quickly he had fallen asleep during aunt Andromeda and the child's visit at Christmas, but there were so many possible explanations for it that the observation brought Draco no nearer to identifying the right one. It could be depression, lingering withdrawal symptoms, the innate magic surrounding Hightrees, or a genuine symptom of the underlying condition. He had a nagging feeling that there were a combination of factors at play in Potter's continuing deterioration, and being unable to identify them or even be certain if that were the case made him uneasy. Instead of going to the kitchen to eat, he stopped as he passed the dining room and took a moment to consider the previous evening’s meal with his patient. Knowing that Potter was socially isolated, and having observed a distinct change in his patient’s eating habits when sharing meals with company rather than eating alone, Draco had determined that the man was more likely to remain psychologically alert and eat more if he had someone to share his meals with. Potter hadn’t seemed particularly inclined to solicit Mrs Prout’s presence at meals, but he had asked Draco to join him, so having only two options, the Healer determined that he would be the one to share meals with his patient – at least when Granger, Weasley, or Lovegood weren’t around. Potter's idiosyncratically intrusive style of conversation notwithstanding, it was hardly the most onerous task his duty as a Healer had ever imposed on him. 

Mrs Prout was just bringing breakfast to the table when Draco decided that he would remain downstairs rather than take his morning meal in the office, and although she was visibly surprised by Draco's request that she lay another place at the table, she did so willingly and with laudable speed.

The soft sound of wheels along the floor alerted Draco to his patient’s impending arrival, and he looked up as Potter stopped, dark eyebrows drawn together in obvious surprise. He only took a moment to recover and continued to the dining table, a slow smile spreading across his face. It was all intensity – everything Potter could give.

“You—” Potter’s words ended, but the smile never faded as he loaded his plate and tucked into his meal, and Draco gradually followed suit. Silence reigned, and Draco appreciated the lack of stumbling attempts on Potter’s part to engage him in conversation. “You’re not wearing robes…” Potter said between swallowing bites of his breakfast, his eyes trained on Draco’s face.

“I’d prefer not to have them getting in the way should any more situations like that on Christmas Eve arise.” Potter looked at him for a moment, and Draco swallowed a morsel of egg. “I will be with my mother for most of the evening,” Draco added. 

“Oh, right. I’ll be fine. Mrs Prout will be here,” Potter replied, his features visibly deflating. “Have fun, yeah?”

Draco dabbed his lips with his napkin and placed it on the table as he stood. “I have a lot of work to do today; let’s not dawdle.”

“Of course,” Potter replied, and he quickly wiped his mouth and made his way to the bedroom. Draco followed behind and assisted Potter in getting back into bed. Through the morning stretches, Draco ignored the little sighs of pleasure that Potter made no attempts at hiding. That his patient remained quiet for the most part was a blessing, and once the Healer had completed his duties, he left the room, and began preparations for the next round of tests. 

Draco sat in the chair at Potter’s desk and crossed his legs. Graceful fingers picked up a Quick-Quotes-Quill and laid it against a fresh stack of parchment. The Auror Field Reports were a bloody mess – notes about field medical treatments were scribbled alongside spells used by the Aurors and their suspects – and Draco began cataloguing each instance of ‘MDm’ in the records. Sometimes names of Death Eaters were included in the reports, and there were times when he recognised some, his lips curling in displeasure at their people’s stupidity. It was only a brief distraction, though, and he quickly returned to sorting the information he needed. The list had over twenty-five entries by the time he had concluded organising the parchments, and he knew that it would take some time to make sense of it all – neither Potter nor Weasley was exactly brilliant with their documentation, and Draco unfortunately had to sort through each haystalk in order even to stand the slightest chance of finding the needle.

Deeply concentrating on deciphering the Auror Field Reports, Draco barely heard the light tap against the glass of the study window. An owl was perched on the windowsill, an official Ministry missive in its beak. He stood and opened the window, taking the letter from the owl and sat to read it. It didn’t take him long to assimilate the standard Ministry “We regret to inform you…”; he really wasn't particularly interested in how Lucius had died. Potter had seemed at his father's trial to consider it some sort of redeeming gesture that Lucius had asked Voldemort to delay his attack on the castle, but Draco had known better even in the midst of the chaos and terror following Voldemort's fall: Lucius had wanted his heir spared, true, but for no other reason than to preserve his family line, since the odds of his siring a second son were negligible. Draco had known for decades that he had been an only child for a reason, and that the reason had been intimately associated with his father's most unfortunate fertility problem. Having finished reading, he laid the parchment on the desk and returned to work, slightly irritated at the singularly lamentable timing of the man’s death and the administrative annoyance it inevitably heralded. Not long after the first owl had arrived, a second from Paye, Kasch, and Praie arrived. He would stop at the solicitors' offices when he took Potter to London for testing at Guy’s, he decided, and returned his attention to his list. 

The day had passed quickly, and it was lunchtime before Draco knew it. Downstairs, Potter was already waiting at the table alone, his face long. He looked up at the sound of Draco’s shoes on the floor, and that same smile from breakfast tore across his face like a Slicing Hex. 

“That’s two in a row,” Potter said jovially. “Are you trying to look like you care?” Draco’s first reaction was to offer a withering retort in return, but he realised that Potter’s smile hadn’t faded. He’s joking, Draco observed. He wasn’t familiar with this side of Potter, and the more he saw it, the more he wondered if his patient had always been that way and he had failed to see it, or if he was making a conscious effort to ease the always-present tension between them.

“You eat more when you have company at meals, and it is my duty as your Healer to make sure that you are as healthy as possible until the underlying problem can be discovered, Potter,” he replied in a tone that declared the subject closed to further pursuit. 

“I see.”

Lunch went by quickly, and Draco bade Potter a brief valediction as he returned to his work. It was inevitable, he knew, that he would have to speak with Weasley about obtaining his memories of the missions he had catalogued earlier. Draco wasn’t looking forward to that, and as he dictated a short missive requesting a brief audience, he recalled the redhead’s idiocy with clarity. Weasley, for all of his good intentions, had always been both jealous and envious of Potter – it had been obvious during their school days – and he suspected that the years following their departure from Hogwarts hadn’t changed that in the least. Every interaction they’d had since Draco had moved into Hightrees had proved how irresponsible and completely daft the redhead truly was.

“Kreacher!” Draco called out, and the bulbous-eyed house-elf appeared before him. 

“How is Kreacher serving Master Malfoy?”

“Take this to Weasleys' home,” Draco said, holding out the parchment. 

“Yes, Master Malfoy; Kreacher is obeying Sir.” The elf disappeared, and Draco made a copy of the list of missions, folded it, pulled a robe on, and buttoned it slowly before putting the parchment in his pocket. A faint hint of bergamot and fresh hay clung to his hands, he realised, recognising it for the first time as the scent of Potter.  
~*~*~*~

 

The sun had already set, and Draco stood at the gate of a white house, a dwelling which seemed to him obviously intended to resemble Hightrees, that made him scoff in incredulity. He had obtained the details of Weasley’s home from Kreacher, and the reverent elf had told Draco the name and location – which didn’t have a Fidelius Charm on it. He strode into the garden and followed the path to the front door, knocking briskly upon it. The sound of footsteps could be heard on the opposite side of the door, and Draco waited until it opened to reveal Weasley scowling at him. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

“May I come in, or shall we hold this discussion in the garden?”

Weasley gave an uncouth grunt in response and moved aside, allowing Draco to pass into the hall. “What do you want?” Weasley asked, apparently irritated.

Draco ignored the poor manners, since he was more than aware that getting to the point quickly would be the best course of action. “In order to reach a differential diagnosis for Potter, I need your memories of certain missions in which he was documented as having been hit with ‘Miscellaneous Dark magic’. Your descriptions of spells in the Field Reports are inadequate, and if I’m to treat Potter successfully and discover any underlying magical complications, I need to view those memories—”

“What? No! I’m not giving you my memories!” Weasley interrupted, his face turning an unhealthy crimson.

“I can’t use Potter’s memories. It’s too dangerous to attempt extracting them in his current condition, and you are the only person who was documented as being present at all of the material times.”

“Sod off, Malfoy! I’m not giving you my memories,” Weasley repeated, folding his arms defiantly. 

“For his so-called best friend, Weasley, you do seem to be keen to kill him,” Draco drawled, his voice tinged with lazy contempt. 

“I’m not trying to kill him!”

Draco sighed with an expert assumption of disdainful boredom. “The sooner you co-operate, the sooner I can find out what's wrong with Potter, and the sooner I can fix it, which therefore leads inevitably to the sooner I can get the hell out of his life.” 

“All the bloody time you spend there, and you still haven’t figured out what’s wrong with him…” Weasley began. 

“Your jealousy leaves me wholly unmoved. I need your memories—” Draco paused to extend the list he had complied, “—of these missions by tomorrow evening.”

“I’m not jealous!” It was clear he was, no matter what he said, though the venomous denial did not surprise Draco in the least. Weasley seemed more interested in the fact that Draco was with Potter every day than the fact that Potter was seriously ill, and his envy of the Saviour had been common knowledge at Hogwarts for years. 

Before Draco could respond, Granger walked up behind her husband and interjected in a scathing tone, “You owe him, Ronald. Stop acting like a child and give Malfoy the memories. He’s trying to help!”

“But—”

“I have an engagement,” Draco interrupted, not wishing to hear Weasley’s pathetic excuses. He despised the way the redhead, at least to all outward appearances, cared nothing for his friend, and was ready to leave. “Tomorrow, Weasley. Good evening, Granger.”   
~*~*~*~

 

The Manor was decorated as always, its windows gleaming with soft candlelight, and through the glittering panes, Draco could see the large tree that his mother insisted upon every year despite nobody apart from her actually being there. At the front door, one of the many house-elves greeted Draco, and took his cloak. His mother was waiting for him in the drawing room; dark, elegant robes of mourning were draped around her, and be bowed his head respectfully, greeting her with a brief embrace as she placed a kiss on his cheek. “Hello, Mother. I trust you are well?” he asked. 

“Quite well, dear,” she replied with a faint smile. 

He escorted her to the saloon, and they exchanged pleasantries through their meal before retiring to the library. His mother was naturally already aware of his father's death, having also been informed of it by the Ministry, and advised him that she would arrange the obsequies. Draco was grateful that all he would have to do would be to make an appearance of suitable duration; he had enough to occupy his time with Potter’s malady. He sipped his brandy, and the feeling that other arrangements for his patient’s well-being would be required returned. It was oddly convenient, he realised, that the Manor now belonged to him, as he had already reasoned that modifications such as the ones used in the quarantine rooms attached to the Janus Thickey Ward, which blocked all magic from an area, could be instrumental in establishing the underlying nature of Potter's illness. It had been an especially useful tool with patients suffering from spell damage, and before he left for the evening, he began making preparations, just in case. He wasn't certain that they would be needed, and in fact hoped profoundly that they wouldn't, but if he had learnt anything from his interactions with Potter, it was that nothing ever went as smoothly as one hoped. He knew it was pre-emptive, that Potter could just be tired, but he wasn’t willing to take any chances. It was his duty to make sure that his patient was cared for, and if the innate magic of Hightrees, coupled with the Fidelius Charm, was beginning to affect Potter, he needed to have a strategy in place ahead of necessity to deal with it.

Draco modified the western wing on the ground floor of the Manor, and bade his mother good night before Disapparating to Ropley: he couldn’t break the routine he’d established with Potter. After a brisk walk to the house, Draco headed straight for Potter’s room. The door was open, but Potter was nowhere to be seen. Light filtered from the bathroom, and he stopped, listening to Lovegood.

“Thanks,” he said. “I… hate the way Hermione looks at me. Like I’m going to break or—”

“You look quite fit to me, Harry,” Lovegood said, the smile evident in her voice.

Potter choked for a moment, and stammered something that Draco couldn’t hear. “I appreciate it, Luna. You might not want Rolf to hear you say that, though.”

The sound of Potter’s chair shifting and him dropping into it was loud. 

“Are you all right?” Lovegood asked.

“I’m tired… With everything at Christmas—”

“Have you told Draco?”

There was a brief silence. “Not yet,” he said with a long sigh.

“He’ll listen, Harry,” she stated matter-of-factly. “He always does.”

“Yeah, I know. I just – wanted to be normal for as long as possible, you know?”

“You are normal,” she said with that dreamy tone that Draco had heard only a few times. “Whatever happens, you’re still Harry. No one else has to see that but you.” 

Potter released a sigh, and Draco left them to their privacy. He stood in the sitting room, looking around – finally taking a moment to study Potter’s home with something other than potential – and actual – hazards to his patient in mind. The mantle had been lined with numerous Christmas cards, and Draco, noticing that the one from Flint had been turned the right way up; he inverted again. To his right, something gleaming in an embrasure caught his eye. Moving closer, he inspected it, recognising the antique red china bowl immediately. Sang de boeuf, he thought, wondering why Potter would have such a piece. 

He picked it up, handling the piece of antiquity with care. It had come as a pleasant surprise to see, and he was so engrossed in admiring it that he was slightly startled when he heard Potter’s voice. 

“Sang de…” Potter trailed off. 

“Boeuf,” Draco finished. He was conscious of a mild temptation to inquire what Potter was doing owning such a piece when he couldn't even pronounce its name, but refrained, restricting himself to a slight raise of one eyebrow. 

“Yeah. I take it you approve?” Potter asked, and Draco turned and gave a slow nod, a rare smile gracing his features. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” his patient continued. “Hermione can tell me everything about it – where it came from and all that, but I don’t care. I just like the way it looks. Can’t say why, really. It’s perfect, though.” Potter’s face flushed slightly, and he watched Draco return the bowl to its resting place. “How’s your mother?” 

“She is well, Potter. Thank you for asking. Is Lovegood still here?” 

Potter flushed again, realisation dawning on his face. “No, she’s left already.”

“Are you ready?”

Potter nodded, and Draco followed behind him, assisting the man into bed for his nightly physiotherapy. He could feel the tension in Potter’s legs as he worked, and he massaged the other man's limbs a bit longer than usual, ignoring the little sighs falling from the other man’s lips. That took an effort, since they sounded like the sort of noises his lovers usually made while receiving his most assiduous attentions.

“Luna was helping me out of the bath,” Potter said without prompting. “Was just tired today.”

“Any other weakness or pain?” Draco asked, making eye contact.

“Just my chest – where you took the bone marrow from.”

“Unbutton your shirt,” Draco said when he had finished with Potter’s legs. There were no signs of infection, just a deep purple bruise in the centre of the man’s defined chest. “The pain should subside in a few days’ time.” Pink stains crept up Potter’s cheeks, and Draco blinked slowly. 

Potter nodded, and Draco helped him adjust in bed before the usual, “Goodnight, Draco,” accompanied his exit from the room. 

Once upstairs, he closed the door and undressed, carefully folding his clothes before stepping into the bathroom and starting the shower. He invariably restrained or at least avoided betraying physical reactions around his patient, but in the privacy of his own bathroom he had no inclination to deny his physical needs when they became pressing. Cold water was no longer effective in curbing his body’s response, so he gave in, and slipping into the cubicle, gripped the base of his cock roughly. Potter’s naked body, glistening with spilt water, hand wrapped around his own cock, was clear in his mind when he closed his eyes, and he braced himself against the wall, slowly sliding his hand from the base to the head of his cock. He was precise, and the tension built slowly, effectively drawing him in. The appreciative moans that Potter had taken to giving out during his physiotherapy echoed in his thoughts, forcing him to hold himself harder as he sped up his movements. The pleasure uncurled slowly. It started at the tip of his cock when his hand curled around the head from below, and wound its way into his stomach and sac, pulling at his insides. The tingle of release held him on the precipice. His fingers tightened around his shaft and he panted with each rhythmic movement. It was completely ungraceful, so unlike his usual control. His body snapped, forcing his hips to cant forward. When his fingers began to ache with tension against the hard wall, the memory of a very aroused, very relaxed Potter lying in bed seemed to force any remaining control to the drain along with his come. He was silent as the pearly drops coated his fingers and were quickly rinsed away in the deluge of the shower. He exhaled heavily, slowly regaining his composure. Finishing his shower, Draco towelled off and put on his pyjamas before going to bed. He wasn't going to lose any sleep over his patient having been on his mind. Between Potter being both attractive and the only passable man he'd laid either hands or eyes on in some time, it hadn't remotely surprised him; and he was more than sufficiently master of himself to prevent the occasional harmless fantasy from in any way affecting his interactions with his patient.

 

To Be Continued…


	19. Chapter 19

Beta’d by the always patient and always honest Romany with my everlasting thanks and appreciation.

**Author’s Note: WARNING \- This chapter contains a non-sexual situation that some might be offended by or consider mild squick. Please read at your own discretion. This chapter also has a lot of angst, but do keep in mind there is a happy ending for this story.**

**Chapter 19: An Indescribable Collision**

_Or, What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object?_

_Knees, trembling and unsteady, braced Harry’s body against his bed. Below him, Draco lay relaxed, his cock hard against his stomach, a light sheen of fluid gathering at the tip. Harry’s hands, quivering slightly, were sliding up the insides of the blond’s thighs, his palms barely touching the man beneath him. He couldn’t look at Draco’s face; he was too concerned with touching him, feeling his body, pliant and completely at his mercy, to look at the open expression on a countenance usually as unyielding as stone. The inscrutable mask seemed to have been discarded, and the pale, once-pointed features were flushed. Grey eyes watched every movement Harry made, every gesture that brought Harry’s fingertips closer to his torso. Harry tilted his head and looked at the mangled nipple on Draco’s chest, his hand slowly making its way closer, until he stopped, unsure if he wanted to close the miles between his fingers and Draco’s skin. The drive to feel the damage he had done was strong, though, so he lowered his fingers, gently caressing the livid flesh. Draco lay still, his chest rising and falling smoothly in the dim glow, his soft moan permissive._

 _Timidly, Harry leant forward, his lips outlining the marks he had made so many years ago. His tongue slid the length of the scar on Draco’s chest, and he laid there soft kisses of apology that left his lips quivering. Dropping his head, he turned his cheek against the smooth expanse, listening to the heady pounding of his lover’s heart, knowing that he had caused it to beat so quickly. That was all the evidence he needed. Pale legs lifted, and Harry, somehow aware of the most basic mechanics, slid his cock inside Draco, feeling his body burst with sensation. His cock was sucked deeply into Draco’s arse, and it took all of his restraint not to snap his hips against the blond. Their bodies lay connected for ages before Harry lowered his lips to Draco’s, their tongues meeting at last, curling around one another. When Harry finally moved, he was completely lost. He’d never felt anything so consuming. He thrust slowly at first, savouring each feeling, each tiny sensation that coursed through him, and when it was finally too much, he watched with rapt fascination as Draco came, his face indescribable in its openness._

Harry woke, breathing heavily, his hand fisting his spurting cock as he revelled in the pleasure of his dream. He had become addicted to the images his mind conjured while he slept, to the security and intimacy that he’d never had with Ginny. He knew it wasn’t real, but that didn’t change the way his desires were making it harder for him to look at Draco without seeing the swell of the blond’s lips after sucking his cock in a dream, or the way his face seemed to change and actually display an expression that wasn't just a concealment of everything that he felt. The dreams weren’t real, but the desire was, and he had decided that it didn’t matter that it was Draco. 

His breathing returned to normal, and Harry wiped his hand on his pyjamas before slowly getting out of bed and getting into his chair. He felt good, stronger than he had at Christmas, and moved to the bathroom to clean himself up. It took some time, but he changed clothes, and noticed that the sun was beginning to spread its rays across the horizon, and instead of going back to sleep, he looked on the dresser, spotting his wand for the first time. Unsure how long it had been sitting there, he took a moment to stare at it, realising that while he missed magic, he missed walking more. 

How long he sat, Harry didn’t know. Eventually the soft light of dawn grew, and he heard Mrs Prout in the kitchen preparing breakfast. The sound of pots and pans hitting the hob or being cleaned in the sink were loud, but the front door closing stole his attention. Moments after a cheery greeting, he heard Hermione’s distinct laughter. There was a brief knock at the door, and he called for her to enter. 

“Morning,” she said as the door opened, a bouquet of vibrant flowers in her hand. “How are you feeling?”

Harry felt like he was in the Infirmary at Hogwarts again, and smiled wanly as he replied, “Fine. You?”

“Same as ever. I thought you might like some flowers.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He forced another smile. “Where’s Ron?” Harry hadn’t seen the redhead for a few days, and Ron hadn’t been in a great mood when he’d called last. He had only given Harry a brief salutation and disappeared upstairs to speak with Draco – not long after, he had gone, and hadn’t offered more than a grunt before his subsequent departure.

“He’s at the Burrow. Mrs Weasley asked him to help get everything ready for tonight. George is going to be—” She stopped, and turned to look at Harry, ignoring the flowers she had just placed on the bedside table. “Oh, I’m sorry, Harry.”

“It’s okay.” He wanted to believe that, but accepting his situation and being happy about it were two different things. There was nothing about New Year’s Eve that Harry was looking forward to. Ron and Hermione would be at the Burrow – a long-standing tradition since all of the Weasleys had left Hogwarts – to celebrate, and he would be at Hightrees with Draco. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend the time with the blond, but he did miss his _family_ — only he couldn’t join them for the festivities because there was too much magic at the house that looked like it had been a child’s experiment with building blocks. 

“Will you be okay?” She looked at him with the pity-filled expression that he hated, and he turned to look at his wand again.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Say hello to everyone for me, yeah?” 

Silence fell around them, and Harry cleared his throat, distinctly uncomfortable with Hermione’s lingering presence. 

“You know we wish you could be there,” she said, moving around the room. 

“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

She stopped beside him, and her gaze fell upon his wand. “Harry, you should put that in Gringotts. For safe keeping. I could take it for you if you want,” she offered. 

“No, thanks. Draco can hold onto it. I didn’t even know it was in here.” 

“Are you _sure_?” Her emphasis on ‘sure’ annoyed the hell out of Harry. That she seemed to doubt his ability to make a decision about his own wand caused a flicker of anger he quickly smothered. He knew that trying to justify his trust in Draco was pointless. While Hermione had admitted that the blond had changed, Harry could tell she still harboured doubts about the man. 

“Why wouldn’t I be? I trust him. If he wanted me dead, he would have let me off myself with the Pepper Imp, right?” 

Hermione inhaled and began a reply, but Draco’s voice forestalled her comment. “Potter, breakfast is ready.” 

Hermione jumped in surprise, and Harry looked at the blond with an appreciative smile, noting an almost imperceptible flare of his nostrils. The slight inclination of his perfectly groomed head told Harry that his Healer had heard the conversation – not that he minded, really, he had lost all privacy long ago – and Harry turned toward Hermione. 

“Those aren’t magical flowers, are they, Granger?” Draco asked, Hermione’s pinched expression showing that she hated that he had overheard her doubts. 

“No, Malfoy,” she said, looking around uncomfortably. “Well, I don't want to keep you from your breakfast; you don't want it to go cold when Mrs Prout's cooked it specially. I just wanted to drop this off...”

“What is it?” Harry asked, looking at the parchment Hermione held in her hand. 

“Read it later,” she said. “Now, go eat. Have a happy New Year.” She hugged him awkwardly and left, brushing past Draco. 

Harry wasn’t far behind, and he settled at the table for breakfast. Draco sat across from him, and read the _Daily Prophet_ aloud between sips of his tea. Harry was glad to have some news for once, even if there wasn’t much going on in the wizarding world. It made him feel a part of something still, and when he finished eating, Draco followed him to the bedroom for his morning stretches. As his Healer left, he picked up the holly and phoenix feather wand. Harry wondered why Draco hadn’t asked for it sooner, but then again, he knew that if the blond had proposed that he keep Harry’s wand while he was there, Harry probably would have snapped some short reply that consisted of suggesting that the blond do something impossible and crude. But he hadn’t even thought about it since everything had happened. Kreacher must have found it and returned it, because he couldn’t remember seeing it since he had left work the night that everything had gone to hell – the night that everything had truly changed for him. 

In an attempt to focus on something other than his tumultuous emotions, Harry reached for the folded parchment that Hermione had brought with her and opened it, surveying Ron’s scrawl. _Lucius Malfoy dead… Failed escape attempt with three other Death Eaters… killed by Aurors when he refused to surrender after neutralisation attempts… Family has been notified… The Ministry will not be releasing names of the deceased to protect survivors._ Harry noticed that Kingsley had signed off on the draft of the Field Report. He suspected that if the Minister hadn’t intervened, the _Prophet_ would have been given the names and surely turned its focus to Draco once the public had been made aware of the situation, and Harry found that he didn’t want that. They’d had enough trouble with the wizarding paper already, and he wasn’t sure that his Healer would be as restrained with his reply if another objectionable or offensive article slandering either one of their names cropped up. 

It was odd, Harry thought, that Draco took such pains to protect him, in a sense. He wondered if it meant that he was trying to make up for their past in some way, but he doubted that and it left him questioning a lot of the things the blond had done since he had moved in. He wanted to think that his Healer did it because he liked him, but he had a feeling that the blond would never admit to it, even if he did. That just wasn’t his way – not any more, anyway. The man was completely unlike the boy, and that was part of what made him so attractive to Harry. That he could change so much, that he could be a good person, made the past seem inconsequential. The things they had done to hurt one another no longer mattered as they had a few short weeks ago, and while that was scary, it was also exciting. He sighed pensively. Draco had never evinced pity toward Harry, had never treated him like something he wasn’t, and he could appreciate that. There was no hidden expectation, that Harry could tell, anyway, and among the things he found most alluring was the way the blond made him feel during those twice-daily physiotherapy sessions, which left Harry feeling aroused and impossibly sensate, despite the fact that there was no sexual intent behind it. Someone was touching him, and he needed that. He’d never been touched that way by another person. Harry ran his hands through his hair, and realised that Draco couldn’t be as impossible to read as he appeared. There was the flaring of the nostrils, which he had noticed a lot more of lately, but it didn’t seem to equate that Draco was angry, because his lips thinned like they had on Christmas Eve and many other occasions prior to Ron’s idiocy. And the slow blink – he knew there was something behind it, but he couldn’t place it. Much as he didn’t want to assume its meaning, he was too fascinated to avoid speculating, and memories of a half-naked and semi-erect Healer, holding him on his feet, came to mind. 

And then there was the blond’s habit of effectively forcing out of the house anyone who might cause Harry harm… The way he had dealt with Kingsley – the Minister for Magic, for Merlin’s sake – made Harry stop to think about it; Draco’s protectiveness had manifested as actual hostility, and there had been an emphasis on ‘ _my_ patient’, which had almost leaned into possessiveness, making Harry wonder whether Draco had a territorial streak, but he brushed the thought aside. He had time to figure that out, and he planned to. The longer he dwelled on it, though, the more he found himself starting to believe that Draco would claim him absolutely, and no matter how he tried to rationalise that as a bad thing, he couldn’t. 

He’d been _expected_ to settle down with Ginny, and he had liked it at the time, but now that he was actually feeling attracted to the other man, he couldn’t deny that maybe what he had thought of as another cruel joke on Fate’s part was really an opportunity, a way to start over, to find what he really wanted from his life. He’d made the choice to live for a reason, but somewhere along the way, he’d become docile, and accepted that what everyone else was doing was exactly what he was supposed to do, too. Everyone around him had got married already, and the more he thought about it, the more he despised the way they had tried to dictate his future for him. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he knew that his desires for a family had been the catalyst for his and Ginny’s more spectacular arguments. 

Remembering something Luna had said made him realise that she had been right about one thing: he did need to let someone else take care of him sometimes. He’d spent so long being the ‘hero’ that he’d forgotten that people in love give and take, make sacrifices for one another, and that was something Ginny had never really done. She’d always expected Harry to be there for her, to give her everything, and the more he thought about it, the more he recalled the moments when he’d given up – stopped caring whether or not she had been happy or whether or not he had catered to her every whim. He could almost taste the bitterness on his tongue. At least Draco wasn’t trying to pretend with him; he was well-aware that the blond had never been particularly fond of him, and it was quite clear that Draco had no interest in ingratiating himself with Harry, and there was something about that that he found reassuring – real. It was the opposite of everything he’d ever had with Ginny. 

After breakfast, Harry settled comfortably in bed and read, since that was about all he felt up to doing. His thoughts wouldn’t settle enough to do that, though, and before long, he found himself thinking about Draco again, how his feelings toward him had changed so quickly, and he realised that he could appreciate what the blond had given up for him even if it hadn’t been wholly altruistic. The most telling thing was the level of sacrifice his Healer had made. Harry was sufficiently politically aware to know that if Draco figured out what was wrong with him, the man would be presented with opportunities that had once been denied him, but that didn’t change or explain all of the effort and selfless gestures Draco had made: hiring Mrs Prout; moving into Hightrees in order to care for Harry; bearing expenses himself instead of demanding a draft on Harry’s vault; waiving his fee; showing Teddy that while Harry was different, that was nothing to be afraid of. Draco had nothing to gain, medically or otherwise, by some of his actions, and Harry felt that those measures were more than enough evidence that he really was going beyond the call of duty. 

The blond wasn’t the most emotionally open person Harry had ever met, but that was one of the things that fuelled Harry’s attraction to him. There was something behind the mask – even if he only got frustrating half-hints as to what it really was – that Harry wanted to touch, to taste— 

Taken aback by the realisation that he had apparently begun blurring the lines between dreams and reality, Harry let the book in his hand drop to his lap. Desire – to be with someone and be willing to rely on them without requiring at least a degree of control of the relationship – was as foreign to him as the wizarding world had been at eleven years old, so he wasn’t sure quite how to deal with the realisation that with Draco, he didn’t need to be in control, and was comfortable not taking charge, allowing himself to be dependent on someone else. He really _wanted_ Draco, and part of him thought that his Healer might want him, too, even if there was no solid evidence to support his assumption; he couldn’t think of any other reason why Draco had been so considerate. He’d just have to find out.

Maybe there was something to look forward to with the New Year, after all.

**~*~*~*~**

Darkness stretched across the sky, the moon in hiding as she began anew – just like the coming year. Much of the sky was clouded with a dense fog, but every now and again Harry caught a glimpse of stars nestled in the dark blanket that covered everything. At half ten, Draco joined Harry in the sitting room, and handed him a glass of champagne before taking his usual position in the armchair while Harry rested on the sofa. Draco hadn’t insisted on a blanket this time, for which Harry was grateful. He was nervous, and the thought of Draco touching him at all was making his chest feel like there was a Grindylow trying to grab his heart. As a distraction, he took a large sip of the bubbly liquid and let it settle on his tongue, allowing the flavours to erupt on his palate. It was actually quite nice; he’d never really drunk champagne before, not when he hadn’t been too nervous to remember it for one reason or another, and after the first glass, he was feeling slightly effervescent himself. Draco eventually re-filled his flute and returned to his seat. His interest was held rapt by the blond, and the less he thought, the more comfortable he became, eventually venturing to break the amicable silence. 

“Thank you,” he said. The mask was in place, though, and he couldn’t tell what Draco made of his words. “For everything, I mean.” He ran his free hand through his hair in an attempt to calm his nerves, but it didn’t help. “You’ve done a lot, and I appreciate it.”

“I’m doing my job,” he replied, making uninformative eye contact. 

Even when Draco wasn’t emotional, he had an intense air about him, and Harry’s face flushed and he looked away quickly. “Are you sure I can have this?” he asked with a smile. It wasn’t like it would have mattered anyway; he’d already had a whole glass and was pleasantly floating toward inebriation with each sip of the second.

“Perfectly.” 

“It’s nice. I don’t remember ever having much champagne.” Harry tried to bolster his courage. Draco was still sitting with him, and he hadn’t asked Harry to shut up, so he began talking, trying to keep the blond engaged. “I wish the others could have come here, but… Seeing the fireworks would have been nice. And I haven’t seen Mrs Weasley in ages. Ginny’s probably there. Don’t really want to see her, though. Bet you didn’t expect to be spending New Year’s Eve here, did you?” Harry rambled. 

“Since I live here these days, Potter, and I prefer not to leave you alone, I hadn’t expected to be spending it anywhere else,” he replied, quirking a brow slightly. 

“Still… it’s not all bad, is it?” Harry wasn’t certain he wanted Draco to answer that question, so he smiled and changed the subject. His thoughts were racing, and each time he tried to hold onto something, he stopped in favour of trying to keep things neutral. “Er, why do you watch Ron and Hermione so much? I’ve noticed how you are when they’re here – just curious.”

“I wondered why they had paired off, since I didn’t have to make sure you weren’t dying.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

Draco took a sip of his wine. “They don’t seem to have anything in common apart from both having been Gryffindors and you, really. Their body language is more familiar than it is attached.”

Harry frowned for a moment, thinking about what Draco had said. “We’ve been through a lot together. We spent a year running from Voldemort, the troll in first year – loads of things. Ron helped save her life.”

“Triumphing over adversity together hardly guarantees personal compatibility: witness what Crabbe and I survived, and we’re not even in touch any more. I don’t believe there’s such a thing as a perfect recipe for a solid relationship, but it’s inconceivable that there’s no more to it than 'we lived through that nightmare, now let's make babies',” Draco said. "I mean, at least you and the Weasley girl shared a passion for Quidditch."

Harry sputtered, “It was more than that,” but it was only half-hearted. He couldn’t deny that he and Ginny really didn’t have that much in common; he had just never had any reason to see it before now. 

Draco shrugged in response and said, “When you think about it, Granger has more in common with you, really. For all she treats you like a halfwit, you're really not completely mutton-headed. Unlike Weasley, whose only spark of intellectualism is his ability to play chess.” 

Draco was speaking almost meditatively, without the edge to his tone that would make it offensive; and Harry was nonplussed rather than angered by the blond’s assessment. “He’s a good man.” 

Draco regarded him for a moment and replied, “I didn’t say he wasn’t.” 

Curious what Draco really thought of Ron, Harry decided to take the opportunity to dig for more information. “You think that’s what made him a Gryffindor, then? Ron – I mean. Why not another house?” 

Draco appeared pensive before replying, “His tendency to flounce off and throw a tantrum in times of stress precludes him from being a Hufflepuff. He certainly hasn't the wit to be a Ravenclaw. Why not a Slytherin?" Draco considered for a moment. “That's a very good question. Heaven knows he's always been envious enough of your fame and wealth... maybe that's all it is, though: envy rather than ambition to acquire the same for himself. Hmm, I shall have to think about that, Potter.”

“I was almost Sorted into Slytherin,” Harry said and took a sip. His glass was emptying quickly with all this talk.

“It’s just as well you weren’t.” Draco hadn’t said it with any rancour or malice, but Harry was curious again.

“What do you mean?” 

Draco shrugged. “You’re neither ambitious or guileful,” he said, pausing. Harry watched his lips part against the rim of the flute and waited for Draco to continue. He didn’t know if the blond had taken the drink strategically to keep him attentive, but it had worked. “You’d have fallen in with someone who would have used you shamelessly. Me, probably.”

Harry’s already warm face felt even hotter at Draco’s statement, and he cleared his throat. 

“You don’t think on nearly enough levels or round nearly enough corners or nearly enough steps ahead to cope with life in Slytherin.” He took a sip of his wine. “And, besides, you know perfectly well that we'd have handed you blithely over to Voldemort as soon as he whistled - that's if you didn't end up being some sort of protégé to him, at least. No. The result would have been simply appalling. You were far better off where you were.”

“You would have taken me to Voldemort, then?” he asked, more intrigued than anything. Why, if Draco had intended to hand Harry to Voldemort that night, had he been so spectacularly uncooperative in identifying him at the Manor when it had been painfully obvious for years that he recognised Harry on sight, swollen face notwithstanding? 

“Back then? If you’d been as easy a target as you would have been if you’d been a Slytherin? Very probably. I was hardly minded to question the rightness of my father’s beliefs, was I? I thought the sun rose when he did.” The last was said almost wistfully by Draco’s standards. “And Merlin knows I was never encouraged to pursue original thought.”

Harry considered what Draco had just said, clearing his throat again. It was strange to hear Draco admit that his loyalty to his father had run so deep. He shouldn’t have been surprised by it, but the confirmation that Lucius Malfoy had raised Draco as a miniature version of himself bothered Harry, and he felt a twinge of guilt for having treated him so poorly in school. Thinking of his cousin, he knew how difficult it was for someone to break away from the only thing they had ever known, and Dudley had shown Harry that even he had the ability to change on the night they had said their final goodbyes. By choice, he hadn’t been back to see the Dursleys since. Draco’s having mentioned Lucius reminded Harry of the note he had received from Ron that morning. He didn’t like Lucius very much. He still felt the need to offer his condolences, though, regardless of how uncomfortable it made him feel. He had no sympathy for the man, but it concerned Draco, so he wanted to take that step. “Oh, listen, erm, I’m sorry about your father. Ron sent me the Aurors’ Report this morning.”

Draco paused for a moment, a slight frown tugging at his lips. He appeared slightly puzzled by Harry’s statement, and answered slowly, “He made his choices. A loyal supporter of Voldemort’s cause to the end.”

Hearing Voldemort’s name made Harry wonder how much Draco knew about the man. “Did you know he wasn’t even a pure-blood?” Harry asked, scoffing slightly.

“I am aware of that, yes.”

“I don’t get it. Why is being a pure-blood so important?” He shook his head, feeling the dizzying effects of the wine and ran his fingers through his hair again.

Draco took a sip from his glass and airily waved his hand. “It’s like that Muggle scientist and his experiments with plants. The same is true for witches and wizards. Pure-bloods have stronger magic. We have dominant and recessive traits, often magical strengths and weaknesses. Every family has them. Longbottom’s family is susceptible to curses affecting the mind and nervous system, for example,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “And protecting the bloodlines is a means to protect our existence. Every time a witch or wizard has children with a Muggle, the magical strength of the bloodline is diluted; it’s like watering wine, if you take the long view. Dilute a glass of wine with a jug of water, and what you get is mostly water. As you add more water, the wine becomes so thin that it loses the properties – colour, flavour, potency – that make it wine. Substitute magical blood for wine and Muggle blood for water, and you’re effectively looking at the eventual extinction of wizardry. And there’s the security issue, of course: every time a wizard reveals himself as a wizard to his Muggle sweetheart and her family, he risks exposing all of us. But if that was limited, we’d be safe.”

“So it wasn’t just about hating anyone who wasn’t a pure-blood?” Harry asked, trying to put all of the pieces together. 

“Hardly. It was a drive to protect everything we have, our way of life.”

“I-I didn’t know that. Never thought about it that way.” His mind was reeling. That pure-blood supremacy wasn’t anywhere near the sort of evil ideals he’d always thought – been told – by Dumbledore – was confusing, and he was struggling to understand why Draco had hated him so much if it had had nothing to do with his blood status. So he decided to ask. “Then why did you hate me so much?” he asked quietly, looking at Draco with new eyes. 

“I was the constellation, you were the galaxy; didn’t matter how brightly I shone, I was lost in you.” 

“That’s not true. Snape – the others – they saw you. Even Dumbledore knew enough to want to protect you – that night on the Astronomy Tower, he knew what was going on. He wanted to help. People saw you, Draco,” he said. “I did,” he added almost as an after thought. 

“If Dumbledore—” he paused, “—had wanted to help, he should have done so sooner. He may indeed have had a brilliant mind, but some of his choices were questionable at best. Some of his motivations, to the objective observer, may have been less than plain, and his methods perhaps not above criticism. He did exactly what I would have done, and used you.” 

“Everyone gets used in some way.”

“You aren’t defending him,” Draco said, the corners of his eyes narrowed slightly. 

“No. Why would I? He let me believe a lot of stupid things – left me to a family that didn’t want me—” Harry stopped, realising that he didn’t want to talk about the Dursleys. That was the past; it was over, and he’d never have to deal with them again.

Needing a distraction, Harry drank the rest of his champagne – half a glass – and set the empty flute on the table. The blond re-filled his glass again, and Harry took it as a distraction. His head was spinning with information, but even he had to admit that Draco’s lack of bitterness in light of the subject was telling. Had they been in school, he imagined that the majority of the conversation would have entailed a lot of placing blame. And combined with the alcohol, this new revelation only served to strengthen his desire for the other man. He looked up and met those pale-grey eyes, and smiled in understanding, acceptance. It was nice to know that he hadn’t been alone, even if they had been on two opposite sides of the war. 

Their gaze seemed to remain connected far longer than Harry should have indulged, but he couldn’t help watching as the blond’s pale tongue darted out to swipe the remaining beads of champagne from his lips, his teeth catching it slightly as it disappeared into his mouth again. He bit his lip to stifle a moan, and Draco smiled in return. Why he didn’t do it more often, Harry didn’t know. It softened his features, and he looked like a person – not the statue he often appeared to be; it was an expression Harry wanted to see more of. He suddenly realised that he wasn’t sure whether it was the wine or the smile making him feel as though he could no longer sit up straight or why his head felt like it was no longer attached to his shoulders, but it didn’t matter. _Thump, thump, thump,_ echoed painfully in his ears, his face hot as the clock began its twelve chimes signalling midnight, and the start of a new year. 

“Happy New Year, Draco,” Harry slurred, raising his glass in a toast and drinking it quickly.

“And you, Potter.”

Time seemed to slow as he sat, waiting for something to happen. He almost expected something to happen, but he knew it wouldn’t; he would have to _make_ it happen. “Draco,” he said slowly, giddy, “will you help me into bed, please?” 

No spoken reply came, but Harry didn’t need one. He vaguely noticed Draco walking toward him, felt steady hands help him into his chair, and slowly made his way to the bedroom with Draco pushing him. It was another year, a time to start afresh, and he was determined to do so. The room seemed like it was glowing, all of the lights pleasantly soft as his skin tingled at the blond’s brief touches. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought that Draco had used a Levitation Charm to get him into bed, the way he smoothly glided from sitting to lying in bed, warmth seeming to embrace him. He was still wearing his jeans and t-shirt, so Draco assisted him with getting undressed, the contrast of the cool air against his skin making him aware of his erection as the blond slid the material over his hips. Harry couldn’t help watching as Draco worked, and their gazes met – that almost familiar slow blink covering Draco’s cloudy eyes.

Closing his eyes, Harry breathed slowly, keenly aware of everything: himself and the noises he made, the rustle of the sheets as Draco moved his limbs, Draco’s fingers and hands working the tension from him. They’d had a long-overdue conversation, and even though he wasn’t ready to fall back into their silent routine, he stayed his tongue, anticipating the right moment. It was hard not to flush as Draco stripped his pants off and helped him ease his pyjamas on, knowing that he probably wouldn’t have been capable of doing it by himself, anyway – not with the champagne. 

When Draco had finished, Harry opened his eyes and looked at his Healer. _Now!_ his mind screamed, and urged by his desires, Harry said, “Will you help me up? Need to use the to-toilet…”

“Certainly.”

Harry was breathing heavily and his head was swimming again by the time he was standing, his arms braced against Draco’s. _Merlin, he’s tall,_ Harry thought dreamily as he looked up at his Healer.

Time seemed to halt as he reached up and put his hand on the other man’s neck, bringing his face closer. It was happening so fast that before he could stop, before he could tell himself it was a bad idea, his lips were against the blond’s, and _Merlin,_ they were soft. His mouth tingled, and Draco’s lips parted slightly, seemingly in invitation. Boldly, he extended his tongue, searching for the blond’s, wanting to feel it against his. All he tasted was champagne, and his body thrummed with excitement. Massaging the passive muscle in Draco’s mouth, he moaned as he tried to get more, get some sort of resistance, but there was nothing. In a panic, he bit softly against Draco’s lip, not knowing wholly what he was doing, just that he wanted it badly, but there was still no response, and he felt his heart drop into his stomach, leaving him nauseated and confused. His mind was finally catching up with reality, and the desperate need to feel his Healer reciprocate his attraction made him pull away and look at the blond. There was nothing in Draco’s expression, and he felt like his heart was swimming in his stomach as he realised that the other man hadn’t participated, that he was rejecting him, and it hurt. He slowly released his grip on Draco’s neck and blinked rapidly, unsure what to do. The blond was supporting him, and he felt like he was going to shatter. He wondered briefly if that were possible. He cleared his throat around the lump that seemed to have lodged there and tried to pivot so he could at least sit in his chair: he wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to stand. 

“Um,” was all he could manage. 

“Potter,” Draco began, but Harry didn’t look at him. He slowly reached for the sturdy arms of his chair and dropped unceremoniously into it. “You are my patient. It would be inappropriate to—”

“Excuse me,” Harry interrupted, moving toward the bathroom. 

“I owe you a duty of care,” Draco began again. “I’m here to look after you. I cannot jeopardise your health—”

“Goodnight, Draco,” Harry said, still reeling and nearly breathless. The chair felt like it was moving slower than ever by the time he reached the bathroom door and was able to close it. Somehow he took a piss and made back to bed without killing himself. Thankfully Draco wasn’t still in the room when he returned, feeling an amalgam of anger, rejection, sadness, humiliation, and shame. 

Once he was settled, he stared at the ceiling, blinking slower and slower until finally he could no longer keep his eyes open.

**~*~*~*~**

Waking up had never felt like such a burden to Harry. The room wasn’t terribly bright, owing to the number of clouds hovering in the sky, but the sound of Draco’s voice was like Kreacher growling after Ginny had made a mess of a room he’d just cleaned. It was too loud, too strong, and definitely back to the usual bored tone. He grunted a reply to Draco’s “Are you awake?” and found himself holding a pillow far tighter than he should have, his arms and legs already tense. Fists scrubbed at eyes too blurry and too tired even to attempt focussing. Having not indulged in alcohol of any sort for some time, the lurch of his stomach and floating feeling in his head intensified with each blink. He rolled over slowly, moving his legs one at a time until he was lying on his back, looking at the ceiling. The shadow of a departing figure grew smaller and smaller until Harry was alone once again.

With a heavy sigh, Harry sat up and reached for his glasses, and slid them onto his face. Confronting what he had done last night was not on his list of priorities. Every time he closed his eyes, the whole situation seemed so clear, and fully rational, that he couldn’t escape it, nor avoid berating himself for being so stupid. He tried to think of anything other than Draco’s tongue so limp and uninviting, tried to forget the completely reasonable explanation for his rejection, but he couldn’t. Facing a rebuff had not been part of the plan: Draco had been supposed to want him. But he hadn’t planned, not really. All he had done was make a decision and act upon it without thinking – true to form. What he had mistaken for permission, he now knew, had been the precursor to protest. _Fuck._ He shook his head in attempts to stop reliving Draco’s rag-doll response over and over in his head like a wizarding photograph, but it didn’t help. His temples pounded, and Harry’s mouth felt like one of the Weasley Twins’ Portable Swamps. Daring to move, he sluggishly gripped the arms of his chair and hoisted himself from bed, attempting to transfer despite the quivering muscles and tension in his legs. 

“Shit,” he groaned, dragging himself the rest of the way to the edge of the bed. Everything had become a bloody chore, and before he could talk himself out of getting up, he moved. In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth and tried to rid himself of the bitter taste of rejection clinging to his tongue. He wondered if he could reach in and scrape the psychosomatic film from his mouth, but he knew better; there was nothing actually on his tongue – unless he was growing delusional in seclusion. After his usual routine, he slowly made his way to the dining table, unsure what to do, say, or think. Part of him wanted to pretend nothing had happened, forget about it, but that was impossible. Draco Malfoy, in his own, twisted and insidious way, had always been part of Harry, and that hadn’t changed – only the way he had learned to deal with his obsession with the man had. When they were at Hogwarts, he’d have never entertained thoughts of kissing or shagging Draco, and now, in the Merlin-be-damned silence of the dining room, he wished that things were like they had used to be. If Draco hated him, he wouldn’t have to care, and if he hated Draco, he wouldn’t feel so fucking empty over such a small thing as the man who had saved his life rejecting him. But he did. Because he wanted Draco, it was impossible not to think about him, dream about him, want to talk to him about something other than the fact he was crippled.

Looking at his meal, Harry slowly began to force himself through the mechanical motions of eating, despite how much his stomach hurt. It only got worse when Draco looked up at him as he chewed, swallowed, and repeated the process as though he wasn’t actually in charge of his body. He kept his focus on his plate; it seemed like the only logical thing to do. Otherwise, he might find himself reliving his fifth year when all he’d known was anger and frustration. And then there was the part of him that wanted to ask why Draco didn’t want him too, but it wasn’t that simple. Realistically, Harry knew that Draco was right: as his Healer, it would be completely mad for him to indulge in a liaison with a patient just to suit his fancy - _especially with Harry Potter,_ his mind taunted. _Stupid._ He sighed, trying to ignore Draco’s reading the _Prophet_ as though nothing had happened between them, and remained silent until he had eaten all he could, and then he left for his room, easing back into bed, feeling no less confused, or hurt. 

The morning physiotherapy was the most uncomfortable it had ever been for Harry. He refused to look at Draco, and only replied “Yeah, okay,” when the blond informed him that tomorrow they would go to London and Harry would undergo the Muggle scan required for further eliminating illnesses. Without a word, his Healer left, and the adolescent urge to throw something, to break something, turn it into a representation of how he felt, boiled within him. Relief wouldn’t come with destruction, though, and he knew that, only making his pride and heart understand that were about as likely as finding Voldemort in the middle of London on a Muggle street corner dancing and singing. _Stupid._

Sometime before lunch, the front door opened and closed, and Harry, still sulking, remained in bed; he was not comfortable, but couldn't be arsed to care who was calling. Then the double knock followed by a scratch against the grain heralded Luna’s arrival. He hadn't known she would be calling, so he tried to construct his own mask of calm, of a composure that was completely at odds with the maelstrom actually going on in his mind. “Harry?” she sang, emphasising both r’s in a way he couldn’t describe. The door opened, and she peered around the corner, her wand securing a knot of pale hair on the top of her head. 

“There you are.” She smiled. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said, clearing his throat when he heard the harsh tone he’d adopted. “Fine.” This time his voice was more fluid, natural, and she quirked her head to the side, demonstrating that she was about to say something that Harry really didn’t want to hear. “Happy New Year.”

Rather than reply, Luna seemed to dance into the room, her hands held at her sides in an odd pose as she made her way toward the bed. She stopped at the edge, leaned over, and gave Harry a very warm, inviting hug that he struggled to return. Affection was not something new between them. It should have been easy to lift his hands and wrap his arms securely around a woman who had consistently been there for him without expectation, judgement, or pity, but it wasn’t, and he hoped that he could blame it on his debility without raising her suspicions. Her lips, always warm and kind, pressed against his forehead, and she pulled away, her lopsided smile oddly infectious. 

“Lunch is ready,” she said. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“No,” he said, affecting a smile that _felt_ as wonky as he did. 

Luna patiently waited for Harry to get into his chair and strolled behind him as they went to the dining room. Shortly after they were settled, their plates served, Harry heard footsteps to match Draco’s long, elegant gait, and tried to act normally. But when the blond came into the room, his eyes surveying the table and his patient, Harry couldn’t maintain the gaze. 

“Ah, you have company.”

“Happy New Year, Draco,” Luna said, turning to face him with that warm grin of hers. 

“And you, Lovegood.”

“Will you join us?” Luna asked.

“No, thank you,” was all he said, and left. Harry watched as he walked away, his embarrassment and frustration painting his cheeks a dull red. 

“Harry,” Luna inquired, “do you know what happens if you drop two vases on the floor and cast a _Reparo_ Charm?”

“What?” he asked, confused with what that had to do with anything. “Why?”

“Magic is limited in some ways. It knows it has to fix what’s broken, but it can’t always tell which pieces go together. You still have two vases, but each one has parts of the other. They might look a bit odd, and sometimes the edges grate a bit at first, but sooner or later get used to each other, and you forget that they were ever any different – can’t see one without the other. So you see, even things that are broken can make a whole together.”

His brow furrowed. He had no idea what Luna was talking about. “I don’t— know what you mean,” he said. “Sorry.”

“You and Draco. You’re both broken, but together you’re like those vases: you'll fit together.”

“Luna—”

“I know something happened. You’ve never been very good at hiding the way you feel, you know. I'll wheedle it out of you eventually anyway.”

Soft, knowing blue eyes seemed to pin Harry in place. “Luna—” he began, unsuccessfully. Where to start? He trusted Luna, far more than most of the people in his life, and his lacking the energy to argue with her over her observations just proved how much he needed to talk to someone about what was going on. He sighed. “I— erm, Merlin, how do you know this stuff?” he asked in incredulity. Her fixed gaze was unwontedly firm, and she made no response. “I tried to kiss him, and he-he rejected… me. Said it would be inappropriate.” Harry inhaled heavily. “Was stupid to think he’d want to—”

Luna smiled oddly at Harry, and closed her eyes. “Listen to his hands.”

“What?” he asked, more confused than before. 

“His hands, Harry, listen to them. People don't always speak the same language. You have to know what to look for.”

“Right, like that’s going to help—”

“Shut up and listen,” Luna interrupted calmly. “You’re both broken, but you won’t try to fix each other, or change each other. The moment he moved in here, it was inevitable that you would end up together – complete one another. You and Ginny would have never worked,” she said almost as an afterthought. “She would have been yours completely, but she never could have taken you back, and you need that. I think when she found out that you weren’t the fairytale prince she wanted, she didn’t know how to handle it. She’s not a bad person, just not capable of fitting her pieces with yours. Draco is.”

“You can’t know that,” Harry argued. 

“It’s obvious,” she replied matter-of-factly. Harry looked at her in confusion, trying to process everything before she added, “I need to go. Rolf and I are going to his parents’ house. Good luck tomorrow.”

Harry tried to get her attention before she left, but she was gone before he could form a full thought. Finished with what he could stomach of lunch, he went back to his room and closed the door. Dazed by Luna’s words, he lay in bed, watching the day pass, his thoughts heavy. He was tired, and his muscles ached all over his body. Eventually his bladder began to protest his lack of using the toilet, but he couldn’t muster the strength to get up; it was too much effort. But the pressure was becoming uncomfortable, so he looked around for anything that might aid him. His eyes settled on the vase of flowers that Hermione had brought, and he shifted, reaching for it. He pulled the flowers out and negligently tossed them on the bedside table, pouring the large measure of water into the carafe that always sat at his bedside. Unbuttoning his jeans was easy enough, but he didn’t even try to work them down his hips. He just needed to be able to aim properly… He manoeuvred the vase and tried to find the best position before holding his cock steady and trying to relax enough to piss into the slender container. The pressure slowly eased, and he let out a soft sigh. He finished, knowing that he could pour it out when he next got out of bed, and as he was balancing the vase between his thighs, trying to adjust his pants, the door opened, and Draco walked in, unbidden. 

_Fuck!_ He was still holding his cock when his head snapped up to look at the man’s curious expression, his hand lost purchase on the vase, and it tipped to the side, spilling in his lap. Anger surged through him at the lack of respect on the Healer’s part, and he snapped, “I may be a cripple, but I still have a right to my privacy, Malfoy!”

“If by 'privacy' you mean 'opportunity to choose to conceal further deterioration in your condition from your Healer', you categorically do _not_.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not concealing anything! I was tired, and it was easier than getting out of bed. If you hadn’t noticed, it takes a lot of effort!” Merlin, he hated how his mistake had reduced him to the foolish adolescent he had been. “Fucking piss is everywhere, Malfoy,” he ground out.

He expected Draco to fight back, but there was no acidic reply. “You need a bath,” the Healer stated blandly. 

And Harry agreed. Time seemed to fly after that. He bathed, ate dinner, and went to bed, finding it hard to ‘listen’ to Draco’s hands through the evening stretches. He was still angry and hurt, and he definitely was not looking forward to going to London. He didn’t want people to see him; even though the chances of anyone recognising him were slim, it was still the first time he would be leaving the house, being seen in public, and it scared him.

Morning came, and he was not in the best of moods. His dreams had lost their pleasant tone and had become nightmares. He had been behind a wall, and someone else was there, but he didn’t know who – only he recognised the voice. There had been Death Eaters, and he remembered being hit with spells. The pain had subsided as someone held him, their voice soothing. When he had finally calmed down, lips, warm and pliant, pressed against his until he had become so aroused he couldn’t stand only a taste. It had been Draco, and without needing to be asked, he had sunk to his knees and had begun to suck Harry’s cock. He had watched until his eyes rolled back, completely lost to the pleasure. When he had opened them to watch, his fingers had no longer been wrapped in Draco’s hair, but Ginny’s, and he had woken up in the middle of the night, feeling more tension than the day before. 

Draco watched Harry carefully when they left the house. A taxi was waiting at the corner for them, and they passed the two-hour trip in silence, with Harry fidgeting with his fingers until he leaned his head back and went to sleep. It felt like he had just closed his eyes when Draco was speaking his name, informing them of their arrival. He gave Harry the paperwork he needed and said he would return shortly – he needed to go to Diagon Alley. Harry tried to stay calm, but people looked at him with such varying expressions that he didn’t know how to react. Some with pity, some with loathing, and he didn’t understand it. He was just grateful to be done with the scan and back in the taxi, sleeping through the trip back to Ropley.

**~*~*~*~**

A few days following the Muggle scan, Draco informed him that he had finally eliminated Muggle illnesses. Of course, that complicated things, because all of the treatments to magical illnesses were magical, and his Healer still had no answer for Harry’s reaction to magic. He explained briefly to Harry that he would be spending a lot of time dealing with Ron’s memories, attempting to find a common link for everything, and Harry just shrugged. He’d accepted things as they were, and he wasn’t going to lie to himself and pretend that it would all get better in time. If he remained in the chair for the rest of his life, he’d be fine with that – so long as he could use magic, and he wistfully made Draco aware that he didn’t care about anything else as long as that were made possible for him. 

Days ran into weeks, and before long, spring had arrived. Mrs Prout’s children had long since returned to Hogwarts, and Hermione and Ron had arranged for their anniversary party to be held at Hightrees so that Harry could participate. They had been quite vocal in expressing their wish for him to be a part of it, so he had offered them the use of the house – he had enough space. They had a few weeks, which gave Hermione plenty of time to make all of the proper arrangements so that all of the guests would know of the change. It was mainly family members and colleagues, and Harry supposed that he could sacrifice his comfort for a few hours – even if he didn’t want these people he didn’t know looking at him with the same expression Hermione often displayed. Maybe the changing of the season would take his fears with it – take the sorrow of losing everything again – and allow him to move on, even if somewhere along the way, he had fallen for Draco. Luna spent more time with him in the evenings, and the blond often encouraged Hermione and Ron to call for dinner, citing the need for Harry to interact with more than himself and Mrs Prout all the time. That had been shortly after the failed kiss, and slowly the sting of that rejection began to fade as understanding arrived with the end of winter. 

One evening while Luna and Rolf were dining with Harry, he made a point of watching them closely. As a couple, they were far more open and affectionate than Ron and Hermione, so he watched, hoping their interaction would elucidate whatever signs he had misread or had _wanted_ to see between himself and Draco. Harry excused himself to the bathroom, and when he came back, he watched the couple carefully. Rolf was holding Luna, and she leaned forward to give him a kiss, a blink slowly covering her eyes. A soft smile spread on her face and she looked at Harry, blinking again as she nestled her cheek against Rolf’s chest. Not long after that, they left, and Harry was absolutely certain that he grateful they had absented themselves.

 _It really can’t be that simple,_ he thought. Luna, charming, and strange woman that she was, always had a way of pointing things out to Harry. He chuckled softly, hope swelling within him at the realisation that he may have been misunderstanding Draco. Time, once again, had given him clarity that his impulsive mind never grasped, and he thought about all of those moments Draco had shared that little tell with him. It made sense now. Draco _did_ want him, but he had been right, Healers getting involved with their patients was not a good idea. He might lose the right to practice as a Healer, or be sent to Azkaban, and Harry absolutely didn’t want that. He wanted to protect Draco from anything that would vilify him, and it gave him reason to hope that if he promised to protect Draco, refusing to confirm any allegations against him, maybe he could convince his Healer everything would be all right, that he’d make sure nothing happened – he was sure he could do that for Draco.

That night during stretches, Harry was actually relaxed for the first time in weeks. Draco was silent, but there wasn’t a need to speak; Harry had no pressing urge to ramble in discomfort. A faint smile graced Harry’s features, and for the first time since New Year’s Eve, he stopped thinking, closed his eyes, and listened to Draco’s hands. They worked each tense muscle until Harry sighed in satisfaction before moving on, giving the same attention to each limb. He tried to breathe regularly to keep his erection at bay, but it was hard in the face of the way Draco touched him, concentrated on him. If there was the slightest hitch in his breath or twitch of a muscle, he would stop and look at Harry, making sure he was all right. He’d finally stopped caring about his body’s reactions again, and just let himself feel, without shame, the pressure, consistency, and duration of Draco’s efforts to his feet, ankles, knees, thighs, hips, and arse. It was sublime. 

Stretches completed, the blond helped Harry settle in bed, and for the first time in weeks, as his Healer left the room, Harry said, “Goodnight, Draco.” 

Turning, the man blinked slowly and replied, “Goodnight, Potter.” 

To Be Continued…


	20. Chapter 20

b>Author’s Note: Harry made most of his purchases at Gieves & Hawkes, Hackett, Henry Poole, and Ede and Ravenscroft. If you check the prices, his buying a new wardrobe would cost about what Harry spent in the story. See the end of the chapter for a photo of Hightrees, an approximation of the type of house Grimmauld Place was and where I got the price from, along with a photo of Ron’s house “Wood End”.

Many thanks to Romany for all her help with her assistance in locating all of the facts I needed, and whipping my madness into shape. I’m always appreciative, love. You’re a star. *hugs*

**Chapter 20: [A Picture is Worth] A Thousand Words**

Spring had brought with it many new and beautiful things: the garden that Harry’s bedroom overlooked was in full bloom; the weather was fabulous; and the days were finally growing longer. Harry had begun waking up on his own before Draco could come in, and they often met at the dining table without much fuss. The depression that had settled around Harry over Christmas had finally lifted, and with its departure had come a peace he hadn’t known for some time. Acceptance of his situation had quelled much of the anger that had clung to Harry like an intangible, imaginary Dementor sucking all hope from him, and it showed in the little things, mainly his interaction with Draco. 

After waking, Harry sat up in bed, and transferred to his chair. He went about his morning routine, and as he settled at the table, choosing to sit in one of the dining chairs over his wheelchair, he said, “Good morning,” with a smile to an already-seated Draco.

“Good morning, Potter,” he replied. He was silent for a few moments and turned to look at Harry. “How are you sleeping?”

They’d had these conversations every other day or so, but Harry didn’t mind. He actually liked when their interaction seemed less like a poorly patient and his Healer sharing the details of a strange illness and more like two friends or roommates conversing over breakfast. It made the transition a lot easier to deal with that Draco didn’t treat him as though he was the sang de boeuf bowl that rested in the embrasure in his sitting room. They were two men, not patient and Healer. “Well enough,” Harry stated as he took a sip from his cup. Taking a sip of tea was no longer a way to find comfort amongst the tumult of his fear, humiliation, and the brief self-loathing that had accompanied the onset of his illness. Having lost the stubborn, potentially hazardous drive to conceal any information that might be helpful to Draco, their morning conversations often consisted of any changes – no matter how small – in Harry’s health, and showing that he trusted in his Healer had been important to the development of honesty between them. If Harry asked what Draco was working on, what findings he had made most recently, there was always an answer, even if it was as simple as ‘I have a few theories, but nothing more,’ leaving Harry with the faith that Draco would eventually figure out what was wrong with him. “No headaches. Still tiring easily, but I feel fine apart from that.”

Draco nodded mutely, and then said, “You’ve been doing well, and have shown no adverse side-effects from leaving the house – with the charms on the doorways, I’m mildly surprised by that, actually – but it would be a good idea to take you to a location where there is more ambient magic to see how you fare. There are only a few locations within Britain that would suffice, and two of them are in another country, so there’s only one solution, really,” Draco went on, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “It would take only couple of hours to get there by taxi, and I need to see to what extent general magic affects you. This is a risk no matter how you look at it, but it's a _calculated_ risk. It would certainly be a better test than casting spells on you and waiting to see what happens, even if for no other reason than it avoids contaminating the atmosphere here with more magic than is already in it. It’s a Tuesday, and most of the shops still practise half-day closing.” The last was said with an expression that Harry couldn’t interpret, but he felt that Draco was trying to spare him being around more people than he wanted. Yes, he’d come a long way since the first time anyone had mentioned him leaving the house, but it was still a struggle to realise that people would look at him differently because of how far he’d fallen from the man he used to be.

He sighed and gripped his cup of Assam tighter as he averted his gaze from Draco’s piercing grey eyes. The choice was his; Draco hadn’t said that, but Harry had learned that he had to pay just as much attention to the things his Healer didn’t say as the things he did. Of all the mad things Luna had said, she had been right about one thing: Harry was broken. But he knew that he couldn’t hide from his fears forever. He couldn’t always sit in Hightrees away from the world, no matter what the outcome of this trip or any future information that Draco uncovered. He nodded in silent agreement before finding his voice and returning the studious gaze from the man across from him. “Okay. Will you send an owl to Luna and Hermione and see if they can join us?”

“Certainly. My wand is ready and I have some estate business to attend to, which I would like to deal with before I take you to Diagon, if you have no objection to amusing yourself for a while. I should like to take the opportunity of being in London to call on a couple of people on Savile Row, too; I would suggest that we meet Granger and Lovegood there, so I can leave you with them in Muggle London while I run my errands. We can meet at Claridge’s at noon, then, and have lunch before we proceed to Diagon Alley,” he said and took a sip of his tea. “We should be able to leave by half seven,” he added, standing. “Are you ready?”

Harry nodded and finished his tea, transferring back to his wheelchair, slowly making his way to the bedroom. Once he was settled, he closed his eyes and enjoyed Draco’s attentions. He knew it was going to be a long, trying day, so he tried to enjoy the quiet, predictable routine before he lost his nerve. Lying sensate, he completely lost track of time, listening to Draco’s slow, even breaths as he worked. It wasn’t until he felt the warm, calloused fingers leave his legs that he opened his eyes and watched Draco for a moment, smiling slightly at the increasingly familiar slow blink making eye-contact seemed to prompt. Knowing that he should take a bath – deal with his very prominent erection – and get ready to leave for London, Harry sat up and, with Draco’s unbidden assistance, got out of bed and into his chair. With plenty of time to explore, Harry prepared his bath and selected something comfortable to wear. He chose his best jumper, a t-shirt, and a pair of jeans before going back to the bathroom and getting into the lift. He lowered himself into the water and sighed happily as the warmth of the water spread through him. 

It was easy enough to wash up, and tired of waiting, he finally gave in, languidly stroking himself as he thought about Draco. He closed his eyes and turned to the side, running his free hand along his chest and stomach, imagining his fingers and palms were the blond’s. _Merlin, I want Draco._ The desire to be fucked was stronger than ever, and every time he’d wanked lately, it had been to fantasies of giving himself to his Healer – a steadily growing need that crept through him during the time following morning and evening physiotherapy – and it was impossible to ignore any longer. It was easy to get lost in the feeling, and he bit his lip to stifle a groan of pleasure as he moved his finger over his arsehole, caressing it and revelling in the sensations that it created. The contrast in texture against his fingertips was even more arousing than he had expected – electric in the excitement of allowing himself to feel something so new and foreign. Curiosity won, and his cock ached with the tension as he tried to relax, ease the tip of his finger inside his arse. It was like nothing he’d ever felt – impossibly tight and his body tensed with the heat of it all. It was odd at first, mostly because of lying on his side on an unyielding surface, and having to stretch at angles he wasn’t used to, but he breathed and made the effort to relax into it, feeling the coil of need tightening within him until he worked more of his finger inside his arse, slowly pushing it in and out until he was panting with the need to come. Relief, he needed relief, and one finger wasn’t enough. A moan, harsh and pleading, erupted from his throat as he enjoyed the slow glide of his finger in and out of his body. He wanted to try more, to feel more, but he was unused to the sensations coursing through him, and the intensity of his need was slightly overwhelming. He shifted to his back and fisted his cock with one hand, the other massaging his sac until blessed relief washed over him and his body shuddered with the intensity of his orgasm. Panting harshly, he continued to stroke his cock slowly, his body eventually relaxing. A pool of semen rested on his stomach and fingers, and he lifted up slowly, washing himself off before draining the water and raising the lift, thinking about how much he wished he could feel Draco rather than just his own hands.

He towelled off, got dressed, and met Draco in the conservatory, only to be stunned at the other man’s appearance. He was wearing a black cashmere overcoat, tailored perfectly to his tall frame, impeccably pressed trousers, highly-polished shoes, and just a hint of the collar of his shirt hidden by a scarf, and Harry gaped for a moment before regaining his composure. He looked at himself and back at Draco, realising what a difference a decent wardrobe could make to a person's appearance, wondering for the first time whether that might be in part where some of Draco's unassailable self-assurance had its origin, and decided that there was really no reason why he shouldn't have a coat that nice himself. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have the money to spare – having inherited pretty much the whole of the Black estate – it was just that he had never really had the opportunity to learn how to spend money, and it had never really appealed to him – though Ginny, of course, had taken to it like a duck to water. The Muggle chair that Draco had procured for Teddy was sitting by the entrance hall, a coat sitting in the seat. Without a word, he switched to it and settled before putting on the coat and going to the door. Once outside, Draco went to the gate and opened it for Harry, after checking for any Muggles, Harry assumed, and waved him forward. 

It was a crisp morning, and Harry shivered slightly at the dampness clinging to the air. There was a silver MPV waiting at the corner with a man standing in the road who looked quite impatient, if his pacing was anything to go by. Draco approached him and one of the side doors opened allowing a ramp to be extended to the tarmac. Following his Healer’s lead, Harry manoeuvred the chair up the ramp - not without some difficulty and a couple of false starts, since he wasn't entirely used to operating a motorised chair, and he'd never had to direct even the magical one with quite that level of precision - with the slight feeling of tipping backwards making his stomach drop, so he leaned forward slightly until he made it inside, and the ramp slowly retracted as he got settled, the car door closing behind him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and eyed the row of seats in the conveyance, wondering if he’d have to sit in the Muggle chair the entire time or if he could convince Draco to let him move. It still surprised Harry the lengths that Draco went to in order to ensure his comfort, and he watched as the blond and the driver exchanged a few words, the discussion seemingly growing inexplicably quite heated. He had no idea why his Healer would look so scathing, but he shrugged it off when an expression that was familiar drew Draco's lips into a tight line at the corner of his mouth, and the other man stalked to the driver’s seat looking quite pissed off.

Confused, Harry waited until Draco got in and took his seat before asking, “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine, Potter,” he said, waving a dismissive hand.

“Erm, Draco, do you mind if I sit over there? I really don’t want to be in this thing for the entire trip. It’s not nearly as comfortable as the other one.” 

“As you prefer,” he said. 

Harry took the seat next to Draco, fastened his seat belt, and settled comfortably, trying to avoid hitting the blond’s long legs with his knees. Once he was settled, they were off, and knowing that it was going to be a long trip, Harry tipped his head back and closed his eyes, falling asleep.

**~*~*~*~**

Fifteen minutes after they had left Ropley, Potter had fallen asleep, his head lolling to the side and resting against Draco’s shoulder. Draco rolled his eyes dryly and looked out the window as they rode along, and Potter’s scent of bergamot and hay began to reach him after a while. It was clean, and not unpleasant, he noted as he turned away from the windows, trying not to disturb his patient, or his stomach. He began to list all of the potions that used bergamot as a main ingredient in order to keep himself occupied. Muggle vehicles of any sort always made him slightly ill, but at least the driver, even if he was a complete idiot, was more patient at the wheel than he was waiting for his passengers to be seated. That the Muggle had seen fit to complain about Potter’s inability to control the wheelchair remained infuriating, and he forced those thoughts aside as his patient’s soft murmurs distracted him. 

It was easier on his digestive tract to contemplate his latest findings than stare out of the windows again, and Draco stopped to wonder if Potter was aware of Weasley’s fault in his having been hit with so many spells on their last mission. It explained why, to Draco’s mind, Weasley always seemed to be in such a foul mood when he was around. Weasley obviously didn’t want Potter to find out that he’d been at fault in what Draco had surmised to be a link to Potter’s illness. It was taking longer than he’d anticipated to identify the curses the Death Eaters had used, but there were only three memories of Weasley’s in which he’d not yet been able to identify all of the spells cast. He had a feeling that a majority of Potter’s condition was tied to their last mission, but he couldn’t be certain until he’d had a little more time to analyse his findings. 

As they neared London, Draco roused Potter. It took a moment for the other man to wake up, and Draco watched him carefully for signs of anything amiss. When he couldn’t see any, with Potter’s muttered, “I’m okay,” he alighted from the taxi and waited for Potter to follow suit. 

“What are we doing here?” he asked sleepily, but was quickly distracted when he saw Lovegood and Granger making their way towards them. His usual smile spread across his face, and Draco turned away before replying.

“I told you I had some things to attend to here before going to Diagon; one of them just happens to be seeing my tailor.” 

“Oh, sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. Potter greeted his friends, and Draco went into the shop. Concluding his business, he was mildly surprised to see Potter browsing the displays with Lovegood’s indiscriminate encouragement; Granger was obviously mildly appalled.

Draco nodded to them as he left, saying, “I’ll see you at Claridge’s at noon. The taxi is outside.”

After handling his estate business and popping into Gringotts, Draco made his way to Ollivanders. The shop was still shabby, and once inside, he noted that there weren’t nearly as many boxes lining the walls as before. The old wizard’s voice rose from the back of the shop, and Draco waited.

“Ah, Mr Malfoy, it is good to see you again. This was a tricky wand to make, and is probably my last,” Mr Ollivander said, waving his own wand at a cabinet on the wall, “but I do believe it will suit you much better than your previous one.” He opened the door and removed a box, his hands steady as they lifted the lid, revealing a knobbly hawthorn wand, the handle crusted with the bark of the tree it had come from. To Draco, the thin wood looked like a Dementor’s finger, long, slightly bent, crooking as though it had a joint to flex the tip. “Thirteen inches, my boy. Hawthorn soaked in the tears of a Dragon, with a Veela hair core. I haven’t made one like this in a very long time, but rest assured that while it may be a little temperamental, it should suit you nicely. Very good for Charms work and Counter-curses – perfect for your vocation, I’d wager. Now take the wand,” Mr Ollivander directed, his eyes sparkling as Draco reached forward and felt the wand reacting to the barest touch of his fingertips. As Draco touched it, he felt the perfection and ease of the magic as it bonded to him, a shower of red and gold sparks erupting from the tip as he waved it in the air gracefully. He stood still with a satisfied calm, and the wandmaker nodded, the corners of his eyes creasing as he eyed the Healer.

He settled with Ollivander and left Diagon Alley, Apparating as close to the restaurant as he could.

**~*~*~*~**

“I can’t believe you just spent almost twenty five thousand pounds on clothes,” Hermione said, shaking her head disapprovingly. Luna had encouraged Harry to buy some nice things, so he had, and it had felt good, but it was also strange to have been so carefree about it.

“If it was at Gieves & Hawkes or Henry Poole, it was money well spent,” Draco stated as he approached them. “Presumably you told the tailors to bundle it all together with my commissions when it’s ready for you.”

Hermione glared at the blond, and Harry smiled faintly, nodding his head, his face turning red. He couldn’t account for why he felt so embarrassed, but he reckoned it was because he’d never really spoilt himself before, and Draco’s approval was evident in what he’d said, even if the words hadn’t been chosen in a manner that Harry would usually equate or associate with one’s support.

“I have been known to spend that on a single set of dress robes, Granger.” Draco turned to look at Harry. “What did the house on Grimmauld fetch again, Potter? Twenty-five million?”

“That’s not the point,” Hermione interjected, folding her arms.

“And what is? It's only extravagance if you haven't got it to spend. Potter has. And let's face it, he's had a foul time of it over the last few weeks; why deny him the pleasure of a bit of indulgence?”

Hermione choked and said something that Harry couldn’t hear as she turned and headed into the restaurant. Harry followed, the others trailing in behind him, but not without feeling a slight tingle of appreciation at the blond’s unequivocal endorsement of his choice to indulge himself. Draco took the lead with the manager, and they were escorted to a table in the Reading Room. Harry didn’t know what to do. It was completely unlike anywhere he’d ever dined, and he felt self-conscious as they stopped at a table from which one of the chairs had obviously been removed before they had arrived, Draco taking the seat across from Harry. He almost wished that Hermione and Luna weren’t with them, but he had enjoyed their company while Draco had been busy. The menu was full of unfamiliar selections, and Harry, really just wanting toad in the hole and some treacle tart, looked at his Healer and asked, “Do you mind ordering for me? I don’t know what half of this is. I’d be fine with steak and kidney pudding, but that doesn’t appear to be on the menu,” his mouth curving into a grin. 

“If you like,” Draco replied with a slight, indulgent smile that made a warm, electric feeling shoot from his hair to the base of his spine. Held in Draco’s gaze, he realised he didn’t want the blond’s attention to waver from him. Having noticed that everyone else seemed to disappear to the blond when his attention was held, Harry wanted more of that. It wasn’t fair, he realised, that the blond could make him feel that way. He wanted to despise it, but he couldn’t find a reason to, not when was now certain that Draco’s rejection hadn’t been because he didn’t want him, but because their current relationship as patient and Healer put the mockers on an otherwise completely wanted, desired, liaison. He hated that what he wanted and what was possible were two different things. His condition aside, Harry wanted the opportunity to be closer to Draco, to feel him give the attention to the rest of his body that he gave Harry’s lower limbs during his morning and evening routine. There was more behind the mask, he knew, and he wanted to be able to experience it. 

“Lovegood, stop combing your hair with your fork,” Draco said, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. He turned to look at Luna, her eyes alight with mirth, and couldn’t help smiling. “And don’t dip your fingers in your water glass this time.”

‘This time,’ Harry thought. He hadn’t known that Luna and Draco had ever been out before. Why hadn’t she ever told him? He realised then that he hadn’t been paying much attention to his friends at all over the past few months, and it made him wonder if he ever had. That he didn’t have a clue about their lives now made him stop and watch both Hermione and Luna more carefully; he wanted to know why Hermione seemed so tired all the time, or why she never smiled any more. And Luna, he wanted to know how close she and Draco were – mainly for selfish reasons, but he was also curious how they had become _friends_. Ron, well, Harry hadn’t seen Ron enough lately to know how he was faring. Last time they had really spoken had been on Christmas Eve, and that bothered him a bit. Neville, he hadn’t spoken with him since he’d thrown Ginny out of the house, but he had thought about him lately, wondering how things were at Hogwarts. Harry really didn’t want to speak with Ginny, but he imagined he would have to eventually. There was a lot still unsaid between them – a lot of anger that hadn’t been dealt with. 

Draco said something _sotto voce_ to Luna that left her giggling, and Harry quickly realised that he had not at all been prepared for his reaction. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach and felt like it was rising inside him until he picked up his glass, which was now full of some wine that he hadn’t realised had been poured, and took a sip to distract himself. He wasn’t normally jealous of anyone, and it made him feel guilty and confused, because neither one of them had done anything wrong. Sighing, he set his glass back on the table, closing his eyes to breathe for a moment before he said or did something monumentally stupid. Thankfully he was saved from having to think about it too much; when their lunch arrived, Harry was able to enjoy whatever it was that Draco had ordered rather than watch the blond’s mouth as he ate. He knew there was no shame in it, but Hermione was already eying him oddly for the contented smiles that would spread over his face for no reason other than he just felt good for a change. Luna didn’t seem to care, or she knew better than to pursue her brand of questioning while Hermione was around, so he was safe, for that moment, at least, and that was all that mattered. 

The low hum of the patrons around them grew louder as more people shuffled in, and he was glad they were almost done eating. He had been fine in the shops, but there hadn’t been a lot of people around, then, and now that he lacked something to hold his attention – apart from Draco – he was starting to feeling anxious and ready to leave. Apparently sensing his patient’s discomfort, Draco called their waiter, requesting their bill. Harry reached for his wallet, but the blond refused to allow him to pay, and while Harry appreciated it on one level, he wanted to give something back to the Healer, show him that he appreciated everything, but Draco was hell-bent on never taking advantage of Harry in any way. It was noble in its own way, and he smiled privately as they left, Draco waving their taxi to the kerb so that Harry could easily settle again. The trip to Diagon Alley wouldn’t take nearly as long as the ride from Ropley had, so he opted to remain in his chair – thankfully not having as much trouble manoeuvring it this time – rather than sit next to Draco. 

Hermione was quiet on the ride to the Leaky Cauldron, and Luna kept staring dreamily out the window as they passed through the city. Harry tried to avoid looking at Draco; losing himself in watching too much would only be trouble, so he stole a quick glance now and then and noticed that Draco was looking straight ahead, seemingly focussed on something only he could see. It was evident that he was thinking, only Harry couldn’t discern a thing from the usual blank expression on his face.

Their ride was oddly soothing, and Harry had to fight falling asleep; with the wine and lunch, he was pleasantly relaxed, even if a bit nervous about what was to come. But he had his friends with him, and he knew that they would keep him from being bothered by his ‘fans’. He really hated that term. Being perfectly aware that they didn’t give a shit about him personally, he found himself getting worked up at the thought of people offering their pity as though Harry really needed another person thinking of him as something he wasn’t. When they stopped outside the little pub, he realised his hands were slick, and he wiped them on his jeans as the door opened and the ramp extended with a low hum. 

He pressed the button to power his chair and slowly drove down to the pavement, waiting for the others to follow behind. Hermione held the door open for Harry as he went inside, and the first thing he heard was Tom the barman greeting Draco for the second time that day. Once he was inside the smoky room, he blinked a few times to adjust to the dimness, and looked around, all of the witches and wizards inside staring at him. It had been months since Harry had been in public, and the _Prophet_ hadn’t ceased printing articles about him – Rita Skeeter usually being the main one to point out that Harry had abandoned them all for his own comfort, or varying degrees of absurdity in well-crafted columns that Harry had masochistically asked Draco to read anyway – but even with the Howler, he hadn’t expected them to. Explaining to the blond that the woman didn’t care one whit for truth had only seemed to work when he reminded his Healer how he had helped fuel the woman’s perverse obsession with making Harry into some sort of lying attention-seeker. The blond hadn’t apologised, but Harry hadn’t really expected him to; it had only been the need to point out where it had all begun that made him even talk about that in the first place. 

The low murmurs drew Harry’s attention, but he turned and looked for Draco, following him as though he was some sort of beacon in the dim light of the pub. People took one look at Draco and his other companions and maintained their distance, but he could tell many of them wanted to talk to him, to ask him questions, and when he smiled awkwardly, they shifted their gazes, some glaring at Draco as though he had had something to do with Harry’s condition. It was completely absurd that they would think that, but he was also aware that not many people had been privy to the details of the trial apart from what had been released by the Ministry, and the vast majority still seemed to feel that Draco hadn’t been punished enough, that he owed them more than the suffering of parents who had trained him to think and behave a certain way. The politics and familial dynamics of the wizarding world were still foreign to Harry, and he hated that Draco had to deal with their unmasked resentment and growls of disapproval. It didn’t seem to matter that he was helping Harry, just that he had somehow escaped justice, and it made him inexplicably pissed off to think that they could be waiting for the right moment to deliver their form of justice. The tension in his stomach grew and expanded as he slid between the tables and chairs, keeping watch on Draco as though he’d lose him in the small room if he didn’t keep him close enough to touch. Finally passing the bar, he thought he was clear, but Tom, like he had nearly fifteen years before, insisted on shaking Harry’s clammy hand. His entire arm seemed to rattle with the man’s hand clasped tightly around his, and he returned it as a favour, a gesture of thanks. He really didn’t want to have to deal with him any longer than need be, and after receiving a bit of pity and years-old appreciation for his contributions to their world, Draco finally stepped into the room and said, “Let’s go.” 

There was a lot for Harry to be grateful for, and that included Draco’s vigilance. He sighed heavily in relief and followed the man to the brick wall of the yard at the back of the pub, staring at a sight that made him homesick and nervous at the same time. Seeing the cobbled street made him feel an ephemeral pang of longing for the world he’d been away from, but he knew that if this foray into Diagon Alley went badly, it might be some time before he could go back – if he was ever able to go back. He followed Draco through the opening, Luna’s reassuring hand on his shoulder. Crossing the threshold didn’t make him feel any different, and it wasn’t until he opened his eyes again that he realised he had closed them, trying to see if he could sense anything different in his body. There was nothing, though, and for that, he was grateful. There weren’t many people around, but he was still alert, twisting the little stick on the armrest of his chair to move along the streets, eager to get away from their furtive eyes. Unfortunately the Muggle chair handled the terrain differently from the magical one, and he could tell the difference in it immediately. It was moving much slower than the other had, and his Healer had to slow down in order to maintain a proper distance, which he noted was close enough for him to touch. Draco had taken to walking to Harry’s left, slightly in front of the chair in an almost protective gesture that made Harry’s heart swell with some unknown emotion. Knowing that he was being taken care of no matter what the circumstances made him heady, and he felt better, stronger, willing to continue exposing himself to this sort of vulnerability in the face of his actual fears. Maybe they had been completely unfounded, after all. 

The first place Harry intended to visit was the twins’ shop; he hadn’t been there in ages, and being able to see George would be comforting to his already stressed mind. It seemed that Harry that Draco had anticipated that, because he was already leading the way to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Of the sparse groups of people in the alley, Harry could still see them stopping to point, but no one approached, seemingly afraid to confront Draco in order to get closer. Hermione and Luna were behind him still, chatting away – well, Luna was, but Hermione wasn’t listening, and Harry shook his head. As they nearer the shop, Harry saw two redheads standing beneath the awning and was startled to see Ginny with George. He hadn’t expected to see her, and it hit him harder than he had thought it might. He reacted, reaching for Draco’s wrist, hoping that he could avoid having to speak with her. He was still angry with her, he realised, and he watched gratefully as George sent her on her way, with what Harry realised he knew as her usual ‘I’m being slighted’ expression marring the features that he had once found so attractive. Recognising those things now made him stomach lurch a warning, but he ignored it, knowing that it was due to seeing his ex-fiancée rather than actually feeling any different due to his surroundings. This felt like home, and he hated now that he’d been away from it for so long. Once he realised his hand was holding the blond far tighter than he needed to, he let go, and looked away flushing when their eyes met. 

“Harry! Malfoy owled and said you were coming, but I thought it was a joke!” George called, his long legs carrying him forward so quickly he felt the large freckled hand on his shoulder before he could blink properly. 

“Draco owled you?” Harry asked, slightly flummoxed by the gesture. 

“The git finally got a heart, it seems, eh?” George said lowly, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle in response. “Come in. Are you thirsty? I got some glasses at Habitat, and some bottled water, when he said you were coming. No magic has touched them at all,” he said with a large grin. 

“Yeah, some water would be good,” he said, working his way through the narrow doorway. Merlin, if he could go without ever knocking his knees on a doorframe for the rest of his life, it would be too soon. As it was, he was certain he’d have a nice bruise by the time they got home for the evening. George cleared out of the way so that he could get through, hugging Hermione and Luna each as Harry manoeuvred through the opening.

“Don’t touch anything,” Draco reminded him, a slight oscillation of the pitch making Harry stop and look at the blond for a moment. He _really_ wished he could make sense of the small things with his Healer, but it was almost impossible. He wasn’t going to give up yet; there was plenty of time to make sense of it all, and he would do it. 

“I won’t,” Harry replied, a faint smile curling his lips upward. The shop had changed a lot, grown, expanded, and there were new products everywhere. In the back room, they settled around a small table, and George gathered drinks for everyone, laying tarot cards on the aged wooden surface to mark which person each glass belonged to.

“Yours is the Page of Cups, Harry. Don’t pick up one of the others,” he said. “I don’t need Mr I-haven’t-got-a-personality trying to kill me.” Harry nodded, and watched as Draco looked around the shop. He knew that trying to explain to George that Draco wasn’t as bad as they thought was pointless, that and he really didn’t want the perceptive Weasley to begin asking the sort of questions he really wasn’t ready to answer, so he let it be for the time being. The front door opened, and Angelina Johnson – Weasley – joined them, her midsection quite a bit larger than Harry remembered from the last time they had seen one another. 

“Harry Potter – you’d think you’d been taken captive the way Rita Skeeter writes about you. How are you?” Her expression was soft, but it wasn’t pity that he saw; it was concern, and that made him feel less like a Porlock on display and more like a human being – he wondered if the difference was that she was a friend and not some random person gaping. 

“I’m all right,” he said, grinning. It felt good to be around his friends again. They spent quite a bit of time talking and catching up, and Harry found his discomfort waning with each passing minute. They laughed as George told him new ideas he was working with, and that he and Lee Jordan had been testing everything, keeping an ever-growing stock of paraphernalia certain to get Hogwarts students and brave wizards alike in trouble. It felt like old times, apart from the fact that Harry couldn’t enjoy any of the inventions. He drank his water quickly, his throat dry from all the excited chatter. He was unfortunately starting to get tired, and he set his glass down on the table, asking for some more. 

George happily refilled it from the bottle he had bought at Waitrose just for Harry’s visit, refilling everyone else’s from the jug, and they continued to talk for a few more minutes until the door started opening and closing regularly as customers entered, demanding George’s attention. Many of them, Harry suspected, wanted to get a look at him, but he didn’t say that, realising that seemed a bit self-important. He could have been wrong, but their earlier stares had made him think otherwise, and in hopes of getting out of Diagon Alley without a mob of people swarming him, he decided that he was ready to go. If he got any more tired, they might have to carry him out anyway. 

“Draco,” Harry said, “I think I’m ready to go home.”

Harry picked up his glass and finished it before shaking George’s hand and giving Angelina a hug. Hermione and Luna left before Harry and Draco, making sure that he could get through and that none of the customers would bother him. A wave of nausea began to flow through. Harry, and he blinked rapidly, trying to focus. He took a deep breath and exhaled, thinking he must be feeling off from all the excitement. He had felt a bit like he did then over Christmas, so he didn’t think anything of it. Draco cast a brief glance at him, and he nodded, hoping that the blond understood that he was fine. Given the circumstances, he thought he was holding up fairly well.

Hermione opened the door and stepped out, still talking to Angelina. There were at least thirty people talking and clambering for attention, all of them wanting to talk to Harry, and he looked up in surprise, his stomach shifting uncomfortably as he saw Rita Skeeter standing with her photographer. That damnable Quick-Quotes Quill was already sliding along her parchment as she dictated every move Harry made, including him reaching out to take Draco’s arm. His fingers gripped his Healer as tightly as he was able, and seeing Skeeter’s companion pushing his way forward, he threw his arm in front of his face. The flash on the camera seemed to explode, and anger rose in him as he saw the ugly bastard prepare to take another one. His hand briefly tightened around Draco, and the blond cast him a side-long glance, his lips thinning and nostrils flaring slightly. 

“Get back!” Draco snapped, and Harry cringed with the sharpness of his tone. The too-bright bulb flashed again, and Draco surged forward, commanding Hermione and Luna to assist with keeping people back. Harry was stunned motionless. Sweat started to gather on his forehead, each little drop of water seeming to make his head begin to hurt worse, and he felt himself ready to retch. 

“Draco,” he said weakly, realising that something was very wrong. Clearing his throat, he tried again, “Draco.”

His vision was swimming, and he heard Skeeter talking, her high-pitched voice agitating his already sensitive hearing. 

“Mr Malfoy, how about an interview?”

“No,” he snapped.

“How do you respond to the allegations that you aren’t actually helping Mr Potter recover?”

“I don’t,” he growled. “Now leave!”

“You haven’t always been fond of your patient, why are you helping him now? If I remember correctly, you were quite keen on sharing with the wizarding world what you thought of Mr Potter during the Tri-Wizard Tournament…”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Ms Skeeter,” Draco with a sneer, and Harry tried to call to him again as they pushed the people back. The bulb of the camera flashed again, and he heard a snarl before the loud _crack_ of Disapparation. “Damn it!”

Harry felt like the air in his lungs was being sucked out, and he took a few heavy breaths, his eyes closed and hands shaking. “Lovegood, Granger, clear these people off! I need to get Potter out of here,” Draco barked, his voice loud and harsh to Harry’s ears. 

George came up behind Harry and said, “They don’t know how to leave you alone, do they? Harry, mate? Shit! Malfoy! You need to get him out of here.”

“Thank you, Weasley, for pointing out the obvious,” he snarled.

“You get him out, I’ll do the rest,” George said, and Harry could only sit, trembling and feeling sicker than he had in months. He could barely see Luna and Hermione as they pulled their wands, casting a Tripping Jinx on two of the stupidest who continued forward. Some backed away, some continued to attempt getting closer as Draco pushed Harry through the door, taking care to avoid hitting his knees or elbows as they crossed the threshold. 

His lungs were burning with the crisp air as he inhaled, and his stomach flipped as Draco wheeled him forward. The group of witches and wizards began to part when Draco pulled his wand, aiming it in front of Harry, his expression tight. A spell that he didn’t know seemed to warp the air in front of Harry, and then an explosion sounded behind him, but he couldn’t turn to look. He was having enough trouble breathing and not shaking uncontrollably as it was. Hermione and Luna continued to force people away, but they kept coming as they slowly made their way back to the Leaky Cauldron. Everything felt like it was in slow motion, and as they neared the bricks, Luna ran forward and opened them for them to get through. But the chair was moving slower and slower, and it wasn’t fast enough. “Granger, get the chair!” Draco shouted, his voice tight as he stopped Harry, and Harry felt himself being lifted from the chair. He could feel the hot bursts of air against his face as his Healer lifted him with some effort and said, “Hold on to me, Potter,” before moving as quickly as he could. “Stay with me. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, coughing as he struggled to grip Draco's lapel. His body was pressed tightly against his Healer’s as his fingers cramped slightly and his torso shook. He felt safe, even if his world seemed to be collapsing around him. The air stopped feeling tight, and they emerged into Muggle London, the taxi waiting patiently for them. Everything was a blur, and he felt Draco laying him on one of the seats as he panted with the strain of having carried Harry back to the taxi.

“I’ll be right back, Potter,” Draco said. “Don’t move.”

Everything sped up as though he had been in the middle of a Time-Turner accident, and reality hit him with a near-blinding force. Colours, bright and seemingly alive, assaulted his vision as he struggled to catch his breath. He coughed again, his chest rattling with each heave, listening as Draco intoned, “ _Expecto Patronum,_ ” and a silvery mongoose danced in the air before him. The little beast shot off quickly, another order for Hermione to fetch Mrs Prout and take her to Malfoy Manor quickly following its disappearance. That was all Harry heard before his consciousness faded again. Luna put Harry’s chair in the MPV and Draco jumped back inside, the driver sputtering incoherently at what he’d just seen. “Take us to Wiltshire!” he said, closing the door behind him.

When the driver hesitated, Draco pointed his wand at the man, commanding something that he couldn’t hear properly. He heard the engine roar to life, and slowly they began to move. Harry’s world shifted as though he were Apparating, but not going anywhere. He couldn’t think, and he could barely register Draco’s face next to his. 

“Where are you hurting?” Draco asked, and Harry tried to reply, but he couldn’t form the words, and slowly everything became a haze. He mumbled about his head, arms, legs, and stomach, but he wasn’t sure his Healer heard him. He lay on the seat shaking the entire ride to Wiltshire, feeling Draco’s fingers checking his pulse, his eyes, and anything else he could do without any instruments or being able to use any spells to diagnose the problem. 

Time was a blur, and he felt his body being lifted from the seat before long, and he wrapped his arms as tightly around Draco as he could, just to feel close to someone, to feel like he wasn’t going to fall apart. The way the blond held him close, almost as tightly as Harry held to him, was comforting. “Granger, Obliviate the driver,” Draco called, and in his addled senses, Harry only heard Draco murmuring something to him. It was easier to close his eyes and imagine this was a dream, that the blond was taking the pain away. He heard Narcissa Malfoy’s voice and Mrs Prout's when they entered the house, and his vision warped again for a moment like it had at Diagon Alley when Draco had pulled his wand, and then he found himself in a room with a large, austere bed, his head against a pillow before he knew what to do or say. 

“Need t’ slee’,” Harry muttered as Draco stripped his clothes and did something with his arm. He didn’t know what was going on, only that his heart felt like it was lodged in his throat and his stomach was ready to climb out of his mouth as he lay there feeling helpless, alone. 

“Rest, Potter,” Draco said, making sure he was as comfortable as possible. He didn’t know what to do but lie there and shake against the bedding as the room went dark and he could no longer keep his eyes open. 

Minutes, possibly hours, later, Harry woke to the soft sound of a door opening in an unfamiliar room, and he said, “Draco?”

There was no answer, and he sat up, still shaking, his stomach feeling as though a herd of Hippogriffs had trampled it. 

“Draco?” he asked again, and this time he heard a soft, female laugh that made his spine tingle and his muscles freeze. 

“Mr Potter, how very nice to get you alone,” the woman said.

“Draco!” Harry called out desperately, covering his naked chest. He didn’t want to be around the callous bitch; she’d already got photos of him at his lowest, and if that hadn’t been enough, somehow she had got into the one place where Harry was supposed to have been safe – wherever the hell that was. He knew it wasn’t Hightrees; it smelt different – older, but not in a bad way. 

“There’s no need for that, Mr Potter,” she replied silkily, as though that would make him change his mind. 

The thundering of footsteps reached his ears, and he sighed in relief when Draco flung the door open and the lights flared to life, proving that Harry had been right. Rita Skeeter stood before them, her lips curled in a silvery, ingratiating smile as she turned to face Draco.

“You!” he snarled.

To Be Continued…


	21. Chapter 21

This chapter wouldn’t have been possible without Romany’s support, dialogue help, and making sure that repressed Draco finally broke and made some sense to Harry, so thank you for that, love. I don’t know what I’d do without you. *hugs*

**Chapter 21: A Hero’s Saviour**

The façade of calm disinterest had cracked, and before Harry stood a man he wasn’t familiar with – the adolescent version, yes, but not the man. Lips were curled angrily, and grey eyes blazed with the sort of ire Harry hadn’t seen in years. A snarl demanding Rita Skeeter's immediate departure from the house and indicating that she'd better have one hell of a good excuse for her self-invited entry broke through the _thump, thump, thump_ in his chest. That Draco was there was a relief, quelling the panic coursing through him. He had no protection except for his Healer, and the blond’s expression made Harry believe that he might be about to discover that Draco actually _was_ capable of murder. His heartbeat, a deafening roar in his ears, nearly drowned Rita Skeeter’s imitation of an apology. ‘I’m just doing my job, Mr Malfoy,’ and other hollow platitudes fell from her ruby lips in attempts to dissuade his Healer from choking her to death on the spot. Harry didn’t care what the other man did in that moment, as long as Draco got her away from him. The fact that she had somehow managed to get around the protections of wherever they were – Malfoy Manor, he assumed – scared him more than he wanted to admit. Which was altogether another shock to Harry’s confused and addled system, to say the least.

Harry had lost the strength to hold himself upright, and he fell limply to the bed, the mattress creaking loudly as his body landed. His head was starting to hurt again, and he reached up with one hand, rubbing his temple slightly to try to ease a pressure that felt like a Niffler searching for Galleons inside his head. He noticed the biggest difference in his own body immediately. His hands, usually steady and calm, were twitching, a soft tremor that ran the entire length of his arms and settled in his chest, making his body constantly shift against the bedding – legs included. Hope that the trembling was from panic coursed through him, and he closed his eyes, praying to whatever deities existed that he hadn’t really been reduced to the trembling wreck he was at that moment. 

“Out!” Draco growled, his voice rough and harsh as it had been in Diagon Alley. Harry turned pleading eyes to the blond, willing him to calm down, and allow her just to walk away without any memory of having figured out where Harry was, or how weak he had truly become. Skeeter tried to make more excuses, persuade him to let her be, but Draco had started to look actively dangerous and was clearly not amenable to hearing anything she had to say. She practically bolted from the room when the seething blond started towards her, and Harry was relieved: he didn’t even _want_ to know what would have happened if his Healer had had to lay hands on the woman to get her out. 

The door closed with a heavy _thud_ before Harry could call Draco’s name, forcing a chill down his spine – at least he thought that was why he had twitched so uncomfortably at the heavy sound of wood thumping against wood. Being restless was something Harry was not unused to, but the sinking feeling in his stomach only got worse as time passed and Draco didn’t walk back through the door. He began to pick at the skin around his fingers, digging the blunt edges of his nails in until he felt the wet warmth of blood against his fingertips. Part of him hoped that that Draco would just let Skeeter go – Obliviate her memories, but leave her essentially unharmed. Now that the shock of being startled from uneasy sleep to find her before him had passed and the consequent panic had dissipated, Harry was caught between anxiety and anger. Her lack of respect for his privacy enraged him as it always had, but it couldn’t occupy his mind completely, not when he was prey to sickening, encroaching worry about consequences that might befall both him and Draco if his Healer did something rash – and Draco had seemed as hot-headed and bloodthirsty as Harry had ever seen him. 

Harry didn’t know how long had passed since he had attempted to cease his nervous fidgeting and had closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, still completely knackered and weak. The soft click of the door opening made his eyes open so quickly that the lights burned his eyes, and he had to close them to aid stilling the disorientation that accompanied his surprise. He craned his neck slightly, enough to see Draco walking toward him, and sighed in relief.

“Did you kill her?” he asked, completely serious. He knew it was wildly unlikely, but he wasn’t sure what to think. Draco wasn’t, he knew, anything like the boy from Hogwarts, but the look on his face had been murderous, and that had been unnerving.

“Of course not. I don’t fancy a murder sentence, Potter. Not for the likes of her.”

“Imperius? You’ve used it before.” Uncomfortably, Harry adjusted his position, reaching for the pillows to his side so that he could sit up and see Draco. He caught the slight flare of the blond’s nostrils, and it finally dawned on him what that meant. At least, he _thought_ he understood the meaning of it; every time he had seen it thus far had been right after something hurtful had been said, and he looked at Draco oddly, trying to assess what the other man was thinking. 

“Why would I waste the effort?” Draco was saying smoothly, apparently unconcerned by Harry’s slur on his scruples. “There are far less Unforgivable ways of compelling someone to behave. She won’t trouble us again.”

“But she—”

“You needn’t concern yourself with her further.”

Harry stopped for a moment and looked at Draco, the words sinking in. “Us?” he queried. It was evident that the blond was still a bit unsettled from the set of his usually rigid shoulders, Harry realised. 

“She vexes me just as much as she distresses you,” Draco replied. The words were a bit faster than the usual flow of his Healer’s conversation, and Harry’s brows furrowed as he studied the less than typically inscrutable expression. “You needn’t be concerned with her any more,” he stated again with a tone of finality. 

Harry wasn’t done, though. He had to know what Draco had done with Skeeter. The statement that he shouldn’t be concerned was hardly the sort to subdue his growing tension. “Ron won’t be sending me an owl saying that they’ve found her mind in one place and her body in another, will he?”

“Only if she’s incredibly stupid.”

“What do you mean?” Harry snapped.

Draco made some vague gesture before saying, “It’s none of your concern. Try to get some sleep now, please.”

“Draco,” Harry started, “it is my concern. I don’t want Aurors coming to question you.” 

“They won’t.” The tone of finality was once again clear to Harry, but he pressed anyway.

“What makes you so sure of that?”

Draco gave him a long, flat look, and said, “Do you by any chance remember who my father was?”

“Yes, and you’re nothing like him. You may not have got caught in sixth year, but things have changed.” He hadn’t meant it as an insult, more of a sideways bit of praise, really, but he wasn’t so sure Draco had interpreted it that way when the blond’s expression went unchanged.

“A great many things, yes. The Ministry's truly stupendous knowledge gaps are not among them, however.”

“What knowledge gaps?” he asked, not understanding. 

“The Ministry can't try or condemn - or punish - me for something that isn't actually illegal, no matter how hard the likes of Dawlish and Robards try. It's hardly my fault the legislature has failed to take account of several large bodies of… interesting magic.”

The blond turned away from Harry and started for the door, but he really hadn’t been very reassured by the vague answers. Unwilling to allow Draco to leave until he understood exactly what Skeeter’s fate was, he called out. That the woman had found a way inside the house was unsettling, and without a wand, he was feeling a bit more vulnerable than ever he wanted to admit. He hadn’t been this helpless in years, and it bothered him to think that if something else were to happen, he would have no way to protect himself apart from swinging his fists until they hopefully connected with whomever had foolishly decided to brave finding out just how viciously Draco was prepared to defend his patient, and whether or not he'd be prepared to listen to reason rather than hex them into the middle of the next century on sight. 

“Draco! What— she's a pain in the arse, but I wouldn't want her hurt. Merlin, they're going to think I had something to do with this, and you’ll end up in Azkaban or—” Harry stopped because he realised he was panicking, his ribs feeling so tight he could barely breathe.

“I sincerely doubt that anyone with half an ounce of sense would attempt to hold you, of all people, responsible for any action of mine. Calm _down_ , Potter. You have nothing to worry about,” Draco said. “It’s not as if she even knows where she’s been this evening, anyway—”

“You erased her memory?” Harry demanded, sitting up fully with some effort. It didn’t even bother him that the blanket had dropped to his lap and his chest was now completely exposed again.

A familiar sneer cut Draco’s features. “Of course not. Memory Charms are ridiculously easy to spot and break; I wouldn’t do anything so crude, or so obvious. Just lie down and sleep. You’re tired already, without fretting yourself sick over Rita Skeeter.” 

“The only thing— y-you used something worse? Addled her brain?”

“That implies that it wasn't addled to begin with," Draco replied, closing the distance between them. He reached out and placed his hand at the centre of Harry’s chest, gently pushing him back against the pillows. “Yes, for want of a better way of putting it, I ‘addled her brain’. It's not actually harmful; it just prevents her from telling her whole readership where they can find you.”

“How can you be so sure that whatever you’ve done protects me?” Draco’s hand was warm against Harry’s chest, and a faint blush crept up his cheeks at the contact; he liked it too much, and was torn between trying to pull away and move closer. Considering the circumstances, he knew it was a bad idea to indulge his own desires. He felt stupid for feeling that way, and as if he were in quicksand, he sank away from the touch that he wanted more than he should, feeling the soft sheets bunch slightly around his body as a tendril of heat crept up his spine and left the skin on his chest and back feeling like Braille.

“Because it’s more thorough than merely rendering her unable to remember what she saw,” he said. “She's incapable of communicating the word ‘Wiltshire’ in any way, for one thing. She'll try to point it out on a map, and it just won’t be there.” 

“What’s stopping her from telling everything _else_ she knows? She’s persistent,” Harry asked quickly, still looking at the man looming over him. 

“She won't dare. Don't get yourself into a state, Potter; she'll be absolutely fine as long as she doesn't try to communicate a single thing she's seen or heard here, and she knows it. I promise you.”

Harry wanted to lash out in frustration. Draco’s not telling him what was going on was starting to piss him off. He wasn’t used to not getting the answers he wanted, and he had tried to avoid using Auror questioning practices, but he was starting to wonder if that had been such a good idea. 

“What will happen if she does?”

“She’ll regret it.” The blond’s shoulders squared and his bottom lip seemed to thicken slightly. “It’s nothing illegal,” he added hastily – by his standards. “She’ll develop a skin complaint. Very quickly. It's called ‘necrotising fasciitis’.”

Staring, Harry felt a combination of fear for Draco and confusion. He’d gone so far to protect him, and it was overwhelming to know that the blond would go to those lengths for him – to protect him. Harry had no reason to like that idea as much as he did, but nonetheless the thought of Draco being willing to defenestrate the woman appealed to him on a primal level, and he really couldn’t pass judgement on Draco’s choice of curses – or whatever it was he’d done – not when he’d made use of Unforgivables in the past himself.

“Her eyes will abscess, and her tongue may rot,” Draco added grudgingly, apparently under the impression that Harry’s silence was a demand for more information.

“Eww.” Harry sighed, his face scrunching in disgust.

“Either that or her larynx will rupture. It’s a kind of putrid sore throat. Oh, and her uterus will prolapse. And she may start to suffer hallucinations.”

“That’s really gross, Draco.”

The blond shrugged. “I’m a Healer. I’ve seen far worse.”

“You're supposed to be _healing_!” Harry said harshly. “If I’d known that’s what would happen, I wouldn’t have called you,” he muttered. “You haven’t got any morals, have you?”

Pale eyebrows rose in response to Harry’s question. “She was the trespasser.”

Harry continued muttering. “She was in here. Trying to find out – what? If you’re trying to kill me? If I’m faking? She probably thinks I’m faking, and you’ve gone and fucked up her ability to say anything about me, which— I appreciate it, but it doesn’t make it right,” he said with a sigh.

“I was merely defending my property, albeit with considerable prejudice,” Draco stated. “Admittedly probably with rather more prejudice than might be entirely seemly.”

“Your property?” Harry asked, unsure what Draco had meant. 

“Yes, of course. The Manor. She was trespassing on my estate. As a landowner, I’m entitled to employ necessary force in defence of my property,” he explained dismissively. “Anyway, she has no way of identifying the place again, and she cannot speak of anything she's learned here. I don't know how she got in, since the only time the defensive magics have been lowered was when we were coming and going, but it won't happen again. You have my word on that. Anyone else attempting by guile or force to find their way to you will have to get through me and all the might of the Manor's defences. This place is a fortress, Potter,” he added, when Harry looked askance. “Don't let the façade deceive you: it was built to be a stronghold, and most of its inherent power is geared around that. I've made some adjustments, and now anybody who sets foot in this place will… not get any further than I choose to let them.”

“She’s an Animagus…” Harry said. “You didn’t ask her? All it would take is for her to change and hold onto someone or something. Me, probably.”

“She wouldn’t have been able to remain an Animagus at Diagon Alley if she’d been holding onto you, Potter. The spell I used there is the one on these rooms. It creates a magical dead zone. It’s the same magic we used for rooms of patients in Spell Damage at St Mungo’s. I suppose she could have been holding onto me, though, since I wasn't in the dead zone. She's a beetle Animagus: it would have been easy enough for her to crawl up my trouser leg in the commotion. No matter. She won't be doing it again."   
However much Harry wanted to be angry with Draco, the fact that the man was obviously hell-bent on keeping him from harm made him feel slightly giddy. His word choice had once again made Harry infer that the blond had a possessive streak wider than the wall Umbridge’s Educational Decrees had decorated at Hogwarts, and that Harry somehow fell into its purview. He was curious, then, whether Draco would admit to his reasons for being somewhat territorial regarding him; what he would say if Harry asked why he was being so protective. “Why are you protecting me? I'm capable of dealing with all of this.”

“Because finding that woman in your room has reduced you to a quivering mess, and I won't countenance it. I will not have you distressed. You haven’t the energy to spare for it. I will not have your condition exacerbated by unnecessary exertions. We've come too far for that.”

Harry could have sworn his heart stopped for a moment, and he replayed Draco’s clipped last words in his thoughts. _We’ve come too far for that._ He couldn’t help the slow smile that spread on his face, and he inhaled, trying to catch his breath. 

“Are you light-headed?” Draco asked, reaching for Harry’s wrist, his fingers checking his pulse. “You’ve gone a peculiar colour.”

“It’s nothing,” Harry said, trying to hide the excitement he felt. It was so new and much like riding his broom for the first time had been, and slightly embarrassing that Draco could get to him so easily. He supposed that it should have been obvious, though; they’d always got to one another in one way or another, but this was different. The malicious intent no longer clung to every word; there was no disdain or venom itching to infect the other, and Harry quite liked that. 

Draco’s hand moved from his wrist to his forehead, and Harry swatted it away, saying, “It’s nothing! I’m fine!” again. “Swear it. Apart from whatever happened today, I’m fine. Merlin!”

Apparently Draco accepted Harry’s assurances and found nothing to the contrary, because he said, “Good night, Potter,” and turned to leave. 

Harry, painfully aware that he really didn’t want Draco to leave him alone – or go after Skeeter again – called Draco’s name as he reached the door. The blond turned to look at him. “Don't do anything else to her, please? Let her go. She's not worth it.”

Draco’s shoulders set and he replied, “As you will.”

“I mean it. I really don't want to have to get another Healer.”

“You'll have no need to. But if you require my word on it to settle your mind enough to relax, you have it. I won’t do anything else to her unless she’s stupid enough to try it again.”

Harry grinned wide in appreciation and fought an inner battle with himself: it was either admit that he felt vulnerable, or let Draco leave, and he liked the latter even less than the former, so he steeled his courage and said, “Draco, will you stay? Just until I fall asleep,” he added hastily. “I-I can’t do anything if she comes back, or someone else… I don’t want to be alone yet.”

Without a word, Draco pulled the chair in the corner of the room toward the foot of the bed, turned out the lights, sat down, and said, “Go to sleep,” as he closed his eyes.

“Sleep well,” Harry replied softly as he, too, closed his eyes, feeling secure.

**~*~*~*~**

Three days had passed since the incident with Rita Skeeter. Harry hadn’t done much apart from sleeping, bathing, eating, and enduring his routine stretches since then. To his surprise, Draco had done as Harry had asked and stayed until he’d fallen asleep every night, though the chair his Healer had occupied was empty each morning. Now the bedroom was slightly dark when Harry woke, but he could see the outline of Draco slumped in the chair at the foot of the bed. One leg was propped up against the mattress, and he was slouching at an awkward angle, his backside in one corner of the chair, and his shoulders in the other. Harry reached for his glasses and slid them on his face to see better, and noticed that Draco’s usually perfect hair was mussed and sticking up, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly when he swallowed. His mouth dropped open again, and the soft snore that had been muted, began its opening chords again. Seeing Draco asleep was different; his usually impenetrable mask was gone, and he appeared open, unlike the man Harry saw every day. He looked so peaceful that Harry couldn’t help watching him, his eyes moving slightly beneath pale eyelids and his chest rising and falling steadily. He studied him for a moment, realising that his Healer didn’t appear to have a morning erection of any sort, and he wondered about that since he was painfully hard nearly every morning. _Does it have something to do with me?_ he thought, trying not to dwell on it too much. He knew that was hardly the best of thoughts to have, so he tried to sit up, reaching for his bottle on the bedside table. It had been emptied, and Harry was grateful for that as he shifted the blankets and held the clear plastic container over his cock, hoping that he wouldn’t drop it. His hands and arms were a lot less steady now, and it was damned frustrating to have so little control in his life. He breathed slowly, trying to will his erection away to make it easier to piss, but it was hard with the object of his attraction sitting in front of him, still sleeping. Eventually he forced relief, and he put the lid on the bottle before placing it on the bedside table again. Luck, for Harry, was completely lacking, though, because it made more noise than he would have liked with his hands and arms so unsteady, and just as it was settled on the surface, Draco’s leg jerked back from the bed, and he rose quickly, looking around for whatever noise had woken him. His eyes were glassy with sleep, and once he realised where he was and who had woken him, he sat back down, his knees seemingly giving way under the fatigue. 

“Sorry,” Harry said. He hadn’t meant to rouse his Healer. Once fully awake, the blond was at Harry’s side, assisting him to get into his chair. He had been at Malfoy Manor for three days, mainly sleeping and adjusting to his newest circumstances. Having grown considerably weaker than he was before, Harry needed more assistance than ever, much to his indignation. He’d often had to pause during meals to let his arms rest, and now required Draco’s assistance using the toilet and bathing – the bathtub in his rooms at the Manor was much smaller than the one at Hightrees, and his lift wouldn’t fit in it, so his Healer not only had to assist with washing since Harry was growing fatigued much faster than before, but he had to lift him in and out of the tub and help him towel off and dress afterwards. Prosaic about the situation, Draco had taken charge immediately, making no comment beyond a typically pragmatic remark that Harry clearly required assistance. To Harry’s dismay, that wasn’t where his requirements for Draco’s assistance ended, though: he had found out quickly that he even needed help wiping his own arse. His Healer had offered to hire someone else – a mediwizard – but Harry had refused, since he really didn’t want anyone else seeing him that way; it was bad enough that the blond had to.

After Harry had been awake for longer than the time it took to eat, bathe, and stretch for the evening – and his arms had been added to the regular routine – Draco had explained what had happened at Diagon Alley. In all of the fuss and excitement, Harry had taken the wrong glass and had drunk magic-touched water which had been poured from the magically-cleaned, stored, and carried jug. Upon reflection, he knew it was all of the excitement and nervousness, but he had been lucky: Draco hadn’t blamed him for it and hadn’t got angry with him. 

He’d taken his dinner that evening with Narcissa Malfoy, quietly eating, pausing when he needed to from weakness. Their conversation had been pleasant enough, and when he went back to his room for the evening, Draco was waiting for him. It was odd to see his Healer in Muggle clothes, even if they were more practical in the circumstances, and his gaze roamed appreciatively over the man’s tall frame covered by jeans and t-shirt as he began to undress, ready for his bath. Trying to keep a positive attitude about everything that had happened, Harry offered a brief smile and said, “You know, if you’d wanted a holiday, all you had to do was ask.”

Draco rolled his eyes in the way Harry was learning to see as being of humorous intent. “I see you still have a sense of humour; unfortunate that it’s no more highly evolved than it was at school.” 

He was still struggling with being comfortable nude around Draco, but he tried not to show it. It was easier if they were talking; he tended to forget what was going on. “We can't all be clever, Draco. Some of us have to survive on charm alone.” He smiled then, trying to keep the conversation light. His Healer helped him stand, and Harry unbuttoned his jeans and let them drop to the floor along with his pants. 

Draco shook his head and replied, “It's just as well you inherited your fortune, Potter. I'd hate to see you trying to live on your wits.”

“Yeah, just as well. It’ll make being unemployable easier.” Harry rolled his eyes, but the laughing note had slipped.

If Draco faltered, Harry didn’t notice it. “It's not going to be forever. This is just... a temporary setback. A minor pot-hole in the smooth road of your destiny.”

“No, that was Voldemort,” Harry replied wryly.

Draco’s eyebrows rose slightly at that, and he said, “Touché, Potter. Very well done. A palpable hit.”

He was lowered back into his chair briefly while Draco pulled the fabric from around his ankles, and then wheeled him as close to the bathroom door as he could get before helping Harry up again and slowly easing him to the bath, in which hot water already steamed. He hissed slightly at the heat of the water, but he didn’t want back out. It felt good and soothed his tense muscles. Laying his head back, Harry breathed slowly as Draco lathered him with soap, his hands incredibly deft and gentle as they slid over the contours of Harry’s weakened body. He found it hard not to look at the blond while he worked, eyes dwelling on exposed forearms, seeing the faded Dark Mark on the left and the pale outline of his Healer’s Mark on the other, enjoying the tender attention very much, his body reacting to it without a problem. Thankfully he was mostly relaxed. The first night Draco had washed him, he’d constantly jumped from the uncomfortable intimacy of having another person bathe him, especially given the way Draco, without any sexual intent, seemed to make his entire body burn with the need to be closer, to touch him in return. He was unfortunately reminded of the miles between them each time Draco methodically dried Harry and helped him back to bed for stretches and a full-body massage to relax his tense muscles. He hated it, hated that no matter how much he wanted to say ‘I’ve fallen for you,’ the words failed to come, or that when he looked at Draco’s impassive expression that he couldn’t see what else lay behind it. Worse he hated that he was restless and couldn’t do anything about it. He wanted to be out of bed more often; he wanted to be able to go to the toilet alone, but everything continued to crash down because of little mistakes. The only good thing to have come from it all was that Draco was now certain that Harry was not afflicted with any magical illnesses. The only problem was that that had only brought more complications, more questions, as to what _was_ wrong. Draco’s theory at present was that he had been cursed with something, and had explained he spent most evenings in the library poring through books on Dark curses and trying to match wand movements and variations to those that he had seen in the Pensieve. 

He felt Draco’s firm yet gentle fingers on his scalp and kept his eyes closed as the blond worked the shampoo into his hair. It felt good – too good. When his Healer was done, hot water cascaded down his back and shoulders as Draco rinsed his hair, careful to avoid getting any soap in his eyes, and he lay waiting, eliciting another soft sigh of pleasure, almost asleep from his Healer’s meticulous attentions. 

“Are you ready?” Draco asked, startling Harry slightly as he was pulled from his thoughts. 

“Yeah,” he said, sitting up so that the blond could help him up. His body was lifted almost effortlessly from the tub. With his footing solid, he couldn’t help leaning against Draco’s unyielding frame, and for the first time since the night he had dropped the carafe of water, he felt the blond’s erection against his body, and it sent a shiver down his spine. The bathroom was too small for Harry’s chair and the both of them to be in there, so there were towels sitting on the lid of the toilet, where Harry sat as Draco helped him dry off and get ready to go back to bed. He slumped against the cold, covered porcelain as Draco worked, and decided that he was willing to sacrifice his own comfort for answers he knew would never come without prompting. Choosing his words and tone carefully as he asked, “You were hard that night I knocked the carafe over, too. Been thinking about doing wicked things to me, Draco? I don't mind if you were, you know.”

“You're not the only one in this situation who still has a functioning sex drive, Potter,” Draco said, never missing a beat with getting Harry dry. Harry noted that the blond’s lower lip seemed to thicken as his expression changed slightly, and decided it was time to press for more. He’d been reasonable about not prying into Draco’s life so far, but to have lived with him for nearly six months and hardly learned more than that his father was dead and he had decided to become a Healer after a brief imprisonment in Azkaban while he awaited trial, seemed monumentally unfair. He wanted to know because he cared, because he really liked Draco, and while he had a feeling that the blond reciprocated those feelings on some level, he wasn’t absolutely certain, and he wanted to be. 

“And here I thought it was because of me.” A noncommittal grunt followed his statement, and Harry said, “Suppose a cripple can't be all that attractive, yeah?” No matter how he tried to sound like he really didn’t care what Draco’s response would be, he did. To him, adopting an air of casualness, even if it was at odds with what he actually felt, meant that he might actually get an answer.

Draco gave him a flat look. “That's wholly immaterial. A person's attractiveness to others isn't dependent upon his physical ability. And in any case, you're not a cripple. You're unwell. The difference isn't all that subtle.”

“No, I suppose not. So do you? Have wicked thoughts about me?” he asked, striving for a light, jesting tone, even though he didn’t feel _light_ ; he felt like he was wound tighter than a ball of Mrs Weasley’s knitting wool. To know how Draco saw him, or felt about him on _any_ level beyond 'patient', was important to him. He knew he was pushing, but he needed to know _something_. He wanted to know for sure that he hadn’t just imagined the blond’s reaction to him – and that the reactions he was attributing to himself really were for _him_. 

“What difference does it make?”

“Just nice to know if someone fantasises about you,” Harry said, his face burning red with embarrassment. He couldn’t believe he was actually saying this. He wasn’t the type of man to talk about sex and fantasies with anyone. “I fantasise about you.”

“How edifying.”

“I had this dream…” Harry started, looking at Draco. His heart was beating quickly, and if he wasn’t already still a bit damp from the bath, he was certain that his palms were slick with nervous sweat. Truth be told, he was scared out of his bloody mind, and he _needed_ to know what was going on in Draco’s head – to know whether he needed just to forget the continually growing desires, or if he could keep pushing until he got what he wanted - and had found himself starting to need. 

A pale eyebrow rose. “This isn't about to turn into a speech about equal rights for Muggle-borns, is it? I'm already a convert on that one, you know.”

Unable to stop the nervous laughter that welled within him, Harry let the brittle expression free, the too-loud sound filling the small room. The humour in the blond’s statement wasn’t lost on him, but it was damned difficult to want to finish his thoughts when he wasn’t any better at expressing himself than a dragon, really. He was a man with the forlorn hope of getting another man – his Healer, who was clever, articulate, and notoriously difficult to pin down when he didn’t particularly want to be pinned down – to admit to fancying him. “No. I had a dream about you at Christmas. You were...” He stopped, once again uncertain of himself. He’d never even had this sort of conversation with Ginny before, and it was strange to feel the need to speak about it now, worrying what Draco’s response would be. 

“There, presumably. Is this anything at all to do with our roles as Healer and patient?” Draco said, appearing deliberately disinterested – bored – before Harry could continue.

“No... two men, really. You were fucking me. Possessively.” Harry licked his lips, watching Draco.

Draco’s disinterested expression changed to a dry look. “You may rest assured that I have no intention whatever of fucking you, possessively or otherwise. You're my patient. That protects you absolutely from any amorous inclinations I may or may not have.”

“If I wasn't your patient?”

“You are. I don't deal in ‘what ifs’.”

“When I'm not your patient?”

“You'll have better things to think about.” 

Stopping to shake his head, Harry realised how far off track the conversation had gone. “You’re trying to distract me,” he accused. “That isn’t what I asked you. I want to know if you have sexual fantasies about me.” That pale bottom lip thickened again, and Harry stopped, realising that Draco had stonewalled the last time he had displayed that sign, and he quickly said, “Just answer the bloody question!”

Draco’s eyes widened in response, and before he could make some excuse or derail the conversation again, Harry added, “I’m not dropping it. I want to know.”

Draco’s cheek flickered slightly. “Since you're so fixated, Potter, I will admit to having entertained fantasies about you, yes. I would offer to stand down as your Healer and recommend somebody else, but I really can't think of anyone else I'd trust with your condition at this point.” It was Harry’s turn to be surprised, because he could barely wrap his head around Draco’s having actually answered the question. Draco raised him into a standing position, and Harry instinctively wrapped his arms around the blond for stability. “But you may be completely assured that it will have no bearing whatever on your treatment, and I am perfectly aware of the bounds of propriety.”

“You would have stepped down? You think it's that much of a distraction?” He tightened his hold on Draco, still feeling the other man’s erection between them. He was just as hard, and he wanted to lean forward and kiss him. He knew that Draco wouldn’t kiss him back. 

“It's completely inappropriate.”

“I wouldn't let anything happen to you,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly, his lips so close to Draco that his breath ghosted across the pale skin as the blond’s nostrils flared slightly, his lips thinning and his attention seeming momentarily to flicker.

“That’s not the point,” he replied, his eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth quirking slightly.

“What is? I know it's inappropriate, but...” he said, his eyes darting from Draco’s to his lips. “Can I kiss you?” 

“No. You are my patient, and it would be an unforgivable breach of my duty to you as your Healer to allow anything of the sort. I learned my lesson about rules, Potter. I'm not in the enviable position of being able to obey only the ones which suit my fancy.”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

“I want to put you to bed and get back to Weasley's Pensieve memories.” Draco began to move Harry toward his chair.

“That's not what I asked you.”

The only response was Draco’s mouth quirking at the corners again, and his eyes narrowing. 

“Answering me isn't going to hurt you. It's just you and me, Draco.”

“And therein, I suspect, lies the danger. But then, wilful recklessness always _was_ one of your defining characteristics.”

“I have self-control. Stop changing the subject. Do you want to kiss me?” He phrased the last slowly, emphasising each word as he looked at Draco.

“I've yet to see any appreciable evidence of it.” Harry noted with considerable exasperation that Draco had chosen to reply to his comment about self-control and ignore his actual question, so he tried another tactic.

“You have fantasies about me, but you don't want to kiss me?” Harry asked, trying to drag Draco back on subject.

His Healer’s expression went completely blank, and he glanced at the floor, Harry noted, having never seen this tell from Draco. “What I want really isn’t the point,” he replied, sounding ungracious. 

“Just answer the question.”

The familiar sneer from Hogwarts curved the blond’s lips, and Harry watched as he spoke. “Any particular question? 

“Yes. How can you have fantasies and not want to kiss me?”

“This is a grossly improper line of conversation, Potter. It's gone far enough.”

Sighing, Harry recognised that he wasn’t actually getting anywhere, so he waited until he was settled in bed and Draco was going through the new routine before trying again.

“It's not hurting anything, is it? We're adults, and I'm asking you a simple question. Do you want to kiss me?”

Harry watched as Draco’s shoulders set. “Fine. Since you're clearly not going to do the courteous thing and let this drop, yes. I want to kiss you. I'm not going to, however, so kindly belt up now.”

Harry felt like a tidal wave of triumph was rushing over him at having been able to force that admission from Draco, and he was disinclined to give up without fighting for more now that he’d at least got one. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

“I believe I asked you to drop the subject. When did you last move your bowels?”

“When was the last time you wiped my arse? Do you want to have sex with me?”

“It's not on my list of things to do this evening.”

“I didn't mean this evening. Please answer the question, and don't make me repeat it again. I only have so much energy.”

“Then I suggest that you save it for something more important.”

“Draco…” Harry nearly growled, his frustration mounting. “Please just answer my question. I haven't anything more important,” he said with a scowl. “Or have you forgotten?”

“How am I supposed to know what you consider important? I thought you'd started writing your life story; that ought to occupy your mind for a while.”

“I can’t hold the quill, you git!”

“Then I shall have to ask Weasley to call over to see you. That should take your mind off yourself for a while.”

Harry didn’t want to talk about Ron, and it irritated him further that he’d once again let Draco distract him from the question he had asked - even while something in the back of his mind was reeling at the notion of Draco inviting Ron Weasley, of his own volition, to Malfoy Manor. “I can't even wank properly, Malfoy, at least let me have something to think about other than sitting in that god-damned chair or lying in bed.”

“I fail to see why my sexual interest or lack thereof in you would be more entertaining than, say, Lovegood's assertion that there's a colony of Greater Spotted Lace-Horned Sand Lizards in your garden.”

“I wouldn't expect you to. You aren't in my position.”

“And you aren't in mine.”

Realising that he’d let Draco lead him off his intended course again, Harry stopped and thought about the way he wanted to ask his question. "No, I'm not." He sighed heavily. "But I still want to know if you want to fuck me."

“What does it matter? I'm not going to do it. There's this thing called ‘appropriate conduct’; I believe I've mentioned it before…”

Reaching for brutal honesty out of sheer desperation for an answer, Harry said, “It matters because I've got fuck all else to feel good about these days. I’ve only had one partner, and she screwed around on me for Merlin knows how long before she left me for another bloke, and I’m feeling a bit inadequate, all right? I'd rather feel good about something I can't have than feel bad about the things I used to have.”

Silence ensued, and Harry sighed again, frustrated by Draco’s lack of response. He was clearly contemplating something, but Harry had no idea what might come when the blond did decide to respond. His bottom lip began to ache as he chewed it nervously. It was a bad idea to have laid out his vulnerabilities so clearly for Draco, but he wasn’t so daft as not to notice the effort it was taking the blond to answer his question in turn. That Draco felt the need to skirt everything without giving him a straight answer was driving him mad.

“You're not inadequate,” the Healer said, at length. “And I will admit that, if the circumstances were different, I would be... sorely tempted. Even in this state, you're an attractive man, Potter. Don't allow the vagaries of the promiscuous tart you didn't know better than to associate with to convince you otherwise.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, genuinely appreciative of Draco’s obvious effort to answer his question in a way calculated to assuage Harry’s feelings – without actually answering the original query. But he wasn’t done with him yet. He’d figured him out, at least with these sorts of questions, and he wasn’t going to sit in silence like they usually did, listening to their breaths as they collected in the air. “What’s it like being with a man?” he asked, trying a different line of attack.

“That depends entirely on the man,” Draco replied flippantly.

“What are _you_ like?” he asked, his heart beginning to pound uncomfortably hard in his chest again. He was back to the sort of questions that made him nervous.

“Modesty forbids me to comment.”

“Why's that? I already want to know.”

“It's none of your business,” he replied, his tone indicating finality.

“I love how you know everything about me, have even wiped my arse, and I can't even ask a question and get a straight answer.”

“I need to know every detail there is to know about you because the most minute point could potentially be the one which unravels the problem,” Draco pointed out, infuriatingly reasonably. “You don't need to know anything about me beyond the fact that I'm your Healer; your welfare is my paramount concern, and I'm bloody good at what I do.”

“Too good," Harry replied sleepily. "If this is how you touch a lover, I'm jealous.”

Draco was silent, kneading Harry’s back. He had to stifle a groan of appreciation when the blond’s hands moved over a particularly tense area of his lower back.

“I'm not going to stop asking.”

“Then you’ll get a sore throat. It’s none of your business.”

“What are you like in bed?” Harry persisted, knowing that if he just kept asking, eventually he’d get the answers he wanted. He was trying to remain calm and not let the irritation creep through him and make him snap, but it was difficult. Draco really was trying his patience – deliberately, Harry suspected. 

“Oddly enough, much the same as I am out of bed: blond, about six two…” he replied.

“And when you share your bed with another man?”

“Believe it or not, that doesn't actually change my height or colouring.”

“You like to be in charge?”

“My understanding was that genetics are inherently in charge.”

Harry sighed, still undeterred. “How would you fuck me?”

Half a heartbeat’s hesitation followed Harry’s question before Draco replied, “I wouldn't. You're my patient. I was fairly sure you were clear on that.”

“If you weren't my Healer, and you were interested, how would you do it?”

There was no response, and Harry had finally reached the end of his patience. Draco helped him turn over, and he looked at him, finally snapping. “Merlin, I talk to you all day long, and we've lived together for nearly six months. I think we both know that inappropriate is subjective. You've already told me you want to kiss me, so to me how you'd be with me. It's not hurting anything. I know you’re not going to do anything about it. I’m painfully aware that you’re my Healer. I wish you weren't.” 

Pausing, Draco looked him; Harry could tell he had been startled by the statement, but he let the blond see how his lack of participation in the conversation was hurting him. 

In response, his Healer tilted his head to the side, and the corners of his mouth seemed to be tugged downward.

“You'd probably be dead if I wasn't,” he stated mildly.

“Please just tell me,” Harry said, defeated. “I‘ve never asked you for anything else. Just let me have this.”

A resigned sigh came from Draco and he turned to add more of the oily unguent he used on Harry’s body to the palms of his hands. While his back was turned, he said, softly, “Carefully.” Before Harry could respond, his Healer continued, focusing deliberately on Harry’s thighs, avoiding eye contact, “You're too fragile right now to take anything else, so... carefully.” A grin, vibrant and completely open, tore across Harry’s face. “You haven't the energy you'd need to top me, so you'd have to bottom. And it hurts to have something in there, if you're not used to it. Much less so if you're properly prepared, but it's still uncomfortable at first. I'd be concerned that the discomfort would overwhelm the pleasure for you.”

“What do you mean by overwhelm the pleasure? It can't be that bad if people keep doing it.”

“Most people doing it are a little more robust than you are right now. The least uncomfortable positions, the best ones for a first time on the bottom, simply aren't an option for you at the moment. In an ideal world, of course, your first experience would be as the top. It's less likely to put you off the whole notion.”

“Yeah, well it's not an ideal world, is it? Doesn't make it hurt less, though. I'm not put off. I-I just don't know what's going to happen,” Harry said. “I want to know what...” He was beginning to feel the depth of what he’d just asked for, how it applied to him, and the thought that he might die, but he didn’t want to say that, so he stopped, choking slightly on the emotions threatening to overcome him.

“It's not going to happen," Draco replied quite sharply, snapping a hard glance at Harry’s face to meet his eyes. “Not with me, at least. You're my patient.”

He knew immediately that Draco had misunderstood him from the tone he’d used, and it really was his fault. If he’d just finished what he’d intended to say, they wouldn’t be back to that ‘You’re my patient’ line that Draco was so fond of, and he wouldn’t have misunderstood. 

“You’re misunderstanding me,” Harry tried. Draco raised an eyebrow, waiting. He had to alter his meaning, though; he wasn’t ready to say that he was afraid he might die. “I just mean that I'm afraid that whatever happens, I'll end up alone, and I don't want to be.”

“Of all the people in the world who I consider likely to end up alone, Potter, you're not even among the top thousand.” 

Although gratified that Draco seemed to think he wouldn’t end up alone, he felt the need to make the blond understand that he didn’t want to accept just anyone who showed any interest in him – especially fans of the Boy Who Lived Twice, not _Harry_. “I don't want some fawning Saviour-fan. I'm not him. He's this perfect hero who can do no wrong; that's just not me. I’m an arse sometimes, and I don't know my own limits, and I get carried away,” he said quickly. “I need someone to pull me back in line and tell me off and fight me every step of the way when I go off on one. Someone who'll give the Skeeters and stupid screaming fans even more hell than that, too. I don't want some stupid pretty trophy, and I don’t want to _be_ anyone's trophy, either. I'm just... I'm just Harry. I've got bad hair and knobbly knees and crap eyesight, and right now my body's trying to kill me and I may never do magic again. That's nobody's hero.”

“Your body is not going to kill you, and you _will_ do magic again. And, in the short term, I think we can agree that I'm entirely capable of keeping your hordes of screaming fans back, fighting off the gutter press, and calling you an arse. You don't need a life partner for that while you're under my care. It's all part of the service.”

“Yeah, your duty…” Harry scoffed. He hated the concept of duty.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught Draco’s expression clouding over – the veil in place, hiding him once again. “What's so wrong with that?”

“People acting out of duty, without even thinking about it, is bullshit. You nearly killed someone out of duty to your parents. I had to die for my _duty_ to the wizarding world... I'm sick of duty.”

Draco looked genuinely taken aback by Harry’s statement, and he appeared pensive for a moment. “Nobody's asking you to die this time, and nobody's expecting me to kill. Not but what I wasn't tempted by that Skeeter woman. Don't think of it as duty, if it bothers you put that way. It's more than that, in any case; this is my vocation. It's not just some chore.”

“But it still doesn't change the fact I'm your patient and you're my Healer. Your duty keeps you from what you want, and keeps me from even having a chance at what I want. There's no other way _to_ think of it. I'm a job. And you'll leave when this is over, regardless of whether I want you to or not.”

“When you're well again, Potter, I will be the last person you want around.”

“You know, before all this started, I might have said that, but you're the only person apart from Luna who doesn't expect me to be something I'm not. Funny how that works.”

“Yes, well, that's because she's mentally in orbit around Jupiter most of the time, and I always rated you about as highly as an earthworm. She doesn’t change. I have to admit that my opinion has, though.”

The irregular breathing and the clutched-heart feeling in Harry’s chest began to subside slowly at that, and he even managed to smile. “Mine, too,” he said. “A lot.”

 

To Be Continued…


	22. Chapter 22

Romany has my everlasting gratitude for her efforts at making a humble writer a little bit better. I appreciate everything, love.

****

Chapter 22: Of Opportunities and Sage Advice

Harry jerked awake, startled by a panicked cry, and it wasn’t until his eyes opened and he closed his mouth that he realised it had come from him. Within his chest, his heart pounded angrily, and beads of perspiration that had collected on his brow began to roll along his skin, leaving a trail of musky dampness. He closed his eyes, and the vivid flash of his dream resurfaced, causing him to seek any distraction that would erase the memory of dying – of spells crashing against him like waves upon a shore until he fell limp and lifeless. He took a few breaths and released a low moan as his heartbeat returned to normal. The soft click of the door opening captured his attention, and he looked up to see Draco striding toward the chair at the foot of his bed. Harry didn’t want to say anything; he really hated that he had obviously woken his Healer, and it frustrated him no end that he liked Draco’s being there more than he should. For all his barriers, the blond really was a calming presence, making it easier for Harry to close his eyes and drift back to sleep.

Soft sunlight lit the room as he woke slowly, feeling like he hadn’t slept at all, and Harry tried to sit up, noticing Draco’s chair was empty before he surrendered to the weight of his body pulling him towards the mattress again. Harry hadn’t expected him to be there. He’d only woken with Draco in the chair twice, and, while he appreciated it, he had no expectation that the blond make a habit of keeping a vigil. If he hadn’t been so muzzy after his nightmare, he probably would have protested the blond’s having ensconced himself in the chair then, not waited until morning when it was too late to make a difference. Harry knew Draco couldn’t be comfortable or getting much rest in that chair. For all its majesty, the thing looked like it felt hard as a rock, and the morning after had given proof both times of how tired Draco really was. Harry, feeling responsible, couldn’t help the guilt that tugged at his stomach. He had asked, after all, for his Healer to stay with him when Rita Skeeter had found her way into the Manor almost a week ago.

Harry tried to stretch a little, but as he had come to find, he had his good days and bad days with the illness wracking his body. From the time he woke, he could always tell whether it was going to be one of the good or bad days, and he knew the moment he lifted his arms over his head and started to twist his back to the side that he was going to be stiff and uncomfortable, which invariably meant in bed most of the day. Part of the bad days also meant that he had more trouble gauging his own limits with respect to bodily functions. His bladder, feeling like someone had just stepped on it, began to expel everything in it, and with a frustrated groan, he lay still as Draco approached, and pulled the sheets back to lift him from bed. 

Without a word, Draco stripped Harry’s soiled clothes and lifted him from the bed and helped him into his chair. His Healer walked away for a moment, and Harry watched as he entered the bathroom, and heard the bath start. When the tub was full, the blond lifted him again, taking him directly to the tub, lowering him into the warm water. Harry lay back and closed his eyes, trying to relax. He couldn’t bring himself to look Draco in the eye when he returned from calling the infinitely kind and loyal Mrs Prout to deal with the bedding, so he waited patiently for the washing to commence. As always, the blond was tender and meticulous as he bathed Harry, leaving him biting the inside of his mouth to avoid being too vocal about how much he appreciated the firm hands and their ability to make him forget that he was falling apart day by day. However adamant Draco was that Harry’s body wasn’t killing him, he knew it was; he could feel the changes, the weakness growing stronger. 

After drying off, Draco helped him dress, and they went to the dining room that formed part of Harry’s suite; Narcissa joined them shortly after that. Harry was quiet, but he ate, and he listened to mother and son in their oddly diplomatic discourse, cursing his situation. He declined to join in, but only because his mood was so sour; he really didn’t feel like making an arse of himself. He’d done enough of that during his conversation with the blond a few nights prior, and while he knew having to press for more information wasn’t going to end any time soon, he also knew that he would really have to think about how to broach certain lines of conversation, and be very specific with the way he asked questions in order to keep his slippery Healer on topic.

Draco’s voice broke through Harry’s thoughts as the blond asked if he was ready for his physio, to which Harry replied with a shrug and a nod, following his Healer back to his room. Inside, Draco helped Harry settle, and as he lifted him, he said casually, “Lovegood will be calling today,” and the pungent scent of an unfamiliar tea washed over him, and Harry grimaced slightly. He really hadn’t intended to be rude, but he also hadn’t been prepared for it to seem so strong, either.

“What sort of tea do you drink?” Harry asked as Draco laid him back in his freshly-made bed.

“Lapsang Souchong,” Draco replied, helping Harry adjust comfortably for his stretches. 

“It’s rank,” Harry said. “Sorry. Just makes my stomach turn a bit.” Harry eyed his Healer for a moment and eventually relaxed, knowing that even if the loss of tension in his limbs only lasted for a few minutes following the blond’s efforts, every one of them, however brief, was worth it. He was still frustrated at having soiled himself – as it hadn’t been the first time it had happened, but he didn’t want his Healer giving him a lecture about stress – not when he’d finally stopped telling Harry he needed to eat more, so he inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to remember that his Healer made no judgements about his condition. And when Draco started on his arms, he couldn’t help enjoying the warm calloused fingers as they worked. “What time will Luna be here?” he asked.

“Before lunch. Bill Weasley has agreed to meet me at your house to assist with attempting to break the Fidelius Charm on it. I will be leaving after lunch.”

“Okay.” Harry found it a bit odd that Bill would be willing to help Draco, but he supposed if his Healer had gone to the trouble of contacting the curse-breaker so Harry would be able to return to his home without any consequences arising from the magic, he should be grateful. He just hoped that Bill understood as much as Harry did that the blond wasn’t the person he’d been at Hogwarts. As Draco was stretching his arms, he looked at him, studying the pale, pointed features that had softened slightly over the years until they made eye contact. “Thank you.”

He wanted to roll his eyes because as soon as he realised what he’d said, he knew that Draco’s standard ‘It’s my duty,’ line was coming, and a wave of irritation rolled over him. Fighting to keep himself under control, he exhaled as the usual reply came, and reminded himself that it was time to confide in someone about what he was feeling and what had been going on over the past few weeks. True enough, Luna had told Harry what to look for in some cases, but he wasn’t sure any more if that was enough to keep him pursuing a man who constantly kept him at arm’s length, regardless of how he felt about him. Despite what some thought about him, Harry was capable of choosing his battles, and that brief flash of doubt was all it took for him to consider that maybe Draco really didn’t feel anything more than a sexual attraction for him.

Harry asked Draco to help him onto the sofa rather than leave him sitting in his chair. He would be able to fall asleep and rest for a while before Luna arrived that way, and as he tried to find the most comfortable position, his Healer silently brought a blanket and pillow for him. He forced a smile of appreciation and watched as Draco left, closing the door to the main corridor softly as he departed. Much to Harry’s surprise, a suite in the western wing had been adapted for his use while at the Manor, so he had a bedroom and bathroom, and a sitting room that separated his and Draco’s rooms. They were almost overwhelmingly feminine for the most part, and Narcissa had explained they had once been the rooms of an ancestress who had by reason of some little-understood long-term malady had to live in confined quarters; it was oddly a propos of his current situation. The sofa was quite comfortable, despite its age, and he attempted to read for a while, but fought to keep his eyes open, and eventually fell asleep.

An unearthly cry rent the silence of the sitting room, and Harry’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t know what the hell had made the sound, and he quickly reached for his glasses and shoved them on his face as he turned to look out the window. The curtains were drawn, and he saw a damned peacock standing outside the window, its white feathers spread. Another of the piercing shrieks made him cover his ears. Movement in his peripheral vision made him turn his head quickly, and he blinked rapidly as he saw Luna standing in front of him in a strange robe that seemed to have stripes woven across paisley, pink and black argyle socks visible just beneath the hem. He wasn’t terribly good at choosing his own attire, he knew, but it was quite hideous, even to him. 

“Hello, Harry,” she said cheerfully, and as always, her smile forced his own to tug his heavy cheeks until he was reciprocating. “Mrs Prout’s just served lunch—” she cocked her head to the side, “—and Draco’s on his way.”

Feeling much better than he had that morning, Harry sat up as much as he could and waited for Draco. A few moments later, he entered the room, and assisted Harry into his chair, and they joined Narcissa in the dining room in his suite. He noticed Mrs Malfoy’s reaction to Luna’s robes immediately, but he suspected that he was only able to see it because he’d watched Draco so much, and he smirked lightly as he ate his toad in the hole. There was a little voice in the back of his mind whispering that Draco had been the cause of that, and he watched the blond from under his eyelashes as he finished eating. Mrs Prout cleared their dishes and brought the tea things. Watching carefully, Harry noted that there was only one pot and he watched as Narcissa flicked a faintly inquiring glance at his Healer, who nodded briefly. Wordlessly, Narcissa poured the tea. Harry took a tentative sip when he received his, and then realised that Draco was drinking the same as everyone else. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it until the meaning hit him: Draco hadn’t asked for his usual tea. The warm flare of excitement was hard to hide, but he did his best to contain it, lest Luna make some comment that he really didn’t want to attempt explaining.

After eating, Harry and Luna went back to the sitting room attached to his bedroom. He wasn’t as tired as before, so he sat comfortably, watching Luna, and remembering old times. The smile on her face made him nostalgic – yearning wistfully for the times before everything had become so complicated in his life, before Ginny had betrayed him with Neville, before he had even realised that he had been unhappy with his life. Thinking of Neville made his chest tighten slightly. They had been friends for a long time, and it was bothering him that he hadn’t made an attempt before then to try and smooth things over with him. He knew it hadn’t been Neville’s fault that Ginny had cheated on him, really. Harry had no idea what she’d told him about their relationship, and now that he was a bit more comfortable in his situation, he knew it was time to stop dwelling on things he couldn’t change. He owed Neville that much; he had saved Harry’s life.

“Luna, can you send an owl to Neville for me? I, erm, want to talk to him before Ron and Hermione’s party – he and Ginny are both going to be there, and I don’t want it to be weirder than it already will be.”

“Of course. I knew you wouldn’t be angry with him for long.” She smiled.

“How can I be? I mean, it’s not like I care any more. She probably would have left me once Draco moved in anyway. I don’t think she would have been able to handle any of this.”

“I suspect she would have felt quite threatened by him. I’ve never seen anyone else hold your attention like he does.”

Harry chuckled slightly; he knew what Luna meant. “Er,” he began, “Draco and I talked. A bit.” Harry shook his head. “Just when I think I have something figured out, he-he does something else to make me want to pull my hair out,” Harry said. “How do you know him so well?”

“I worked with him on occasion when he was still a Trainee.” She shrugged. “I understand him. You do, too, but he’s not going to make it easy,” she said with a lopsided grin. “He’ll come around.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s obvious.” She smiled. “What did you talk about?”

“Er—” Harry blushed, “—my dreams. Merlin, Luna, I think I’m in love with him, and it took me asking the same questions over and over just to get him to admit he wanted to have sex with me. He keeps harping on about me being his patient and it being wrong.” 

“He just doesn’t want either of you hurt.”

“But I wouldn’t hurt him – he drives me mad, but it’s brilliant. He doesn’t treat me like everyone else does, just like I’m a normal person. He doesn’t let me get away with stepping out of line, and he knows what I need before I need it, and it’s— I can’t even explain it. I just feel it,” he said with a sigh.

“You’ll work it out,” Luna stated, her eyes quickly darting around the room as though she saw something no one else could. Harry almost expected her to say there were Nargles hanging from the high ceiling, but knowing magic couldn’t function in that part of the house, he ignored her typically queer behaviour. 

“And if I don’t?”

“You will,” she said, giving him a knowing look. 

Harry wasn’t so certain that he would, but Luna hadn’t been wrong yet. At least, not that he’d seen. They spent the afternoon chatting, and despite his growing weariness, he stayed awake as long as possible. Time wore on, and the letter to Neville was sent, leaving Harry feeling a bit lighter than he had before. Draco returned shortly before dinner, and Harry noticed that he seemed to move a bit slower than usual. If he and Bill had been working all that time, he knew his Healer had to be tired, especially after seeing that his usually fluid gait seemed a bit stiffer, and the set of his shoulders seemed abnormally rigid. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, but he could tell something wasn’t right. He disappeared into his rooms, and Harry and Luna sat talking about things going on at the Ministry, about the photos of Harry that Rita Skeeter’s photographer had published, and she told him about the conspiracy theories that some new journalist – following in Skeeter’s footsteps – had come up with. Apparently the best way to sell the _Prophet_ was still to print as many lies as they could conceivably concoct, and Harry shook his head disapprovingly. He declined Luna’s offer to show him the photos, knowing that they would probably piss him off, and he was feeling decent now; he didn’t want to ruin that by viewing images that probably had caught him at his worst. 

He sighed, and just as he was adjusting in his seat, the door to the sitting room opened, and a man with long dark hair strode in, a twittering house-elf and Mrs Prout’s voice attempting to stop him. His robes were reminiscent of those Draco had worn prior to Christmas. He recognised him as the man he’d seen in photos in the _Prophet_ with Draco, and his heart felt like it was stuttering in his chest. The rise of jealousy within him was hard to force away, but he managed, hoping that this man wasn’t part of the reason Draco seemed so tired, or why he had danced around his admissions to Harry. His fingernails dug into his palm, and the inside of his cheek burst with pain as his teeth sank into it to keep him from growling. Draco’s bedroom door opened, and he stepped into the sitting room in fresh clothes, looking less tired than before, but still tired enough that Harry noticed. If he was surprised by seeing the man, he concealed it well, and he only saw the brief flicker of that muscle in the blond’s cheek before he spoke.

“Benedict,” he said coldly as the brunet closed the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”

Benedict stood with a cold veneer of frosty civility before he began to speak quickly in French, his voice growing louder, harsher, with each word, and Harry watched Draco carefully. His expression failed to change, and he responded fluidly, surprising Harry a bit, as he hadn’t been aware that Draco spoke other languages. It was just something else he didn’t know about the man after living with him for nearly six months, and it perturbed him when he saw the newcomer begin to gesticulate in his direction. His voice was growing louder with each word, and Harry’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what was being said. Draco, despite the way he sounded, Harry could tell, was starting to become irritated. It was the set of his lips and the flicker in his cheek that gave it away, and he spat something in return that had the other man waving his arms, and turning on Harry, a look of disdain painted across his features.

Draco’s reply was clipped and obviously incensed, but Benedict – either brave soul or idiot – continued. 

“Potter may be able to spread his legs for you, Draco, but he’s in no condition to give it back to you the way you like,” he snarled, lapsing into lightly-accented English, his lips curled in a sneer. Harry couldn’t help the anger that rose within him at the words, because he could tell that Draco was not only uncomfortable, but rapidly approaching the limits of his self-restraint; and, further, whatever the poncy git had been saying in French had clearly been about _him_. “You like a cock up your arse just as much as you like yours up one. Why are you still with him? What’s happened to your sense of refinement? This… half-blood wouldn’t know finesse or restraint if the fate of worlds depended on it!”

Harry, provoked beyond tolerance even by so short a diatribe, yelled, “Maybe not, but at least I’m capable of recognising that the person I love is about to do something he may not forgive himself for!” Startled by his own words, Harry stopped and blushed furiously. _Oh, fuck!_ He hadn’t meant to be so bold about it, but seeing how much closer to murderous Draco was than he’d been even when confronting Rita Skeeter, Harry had felt the need to say something. He really wasn’t bothered by whatever the other man was saying about him; there was no point in that – not when his Healer had clearly had enough of whatever the man’s words and gestures meant. 

Benedict pulled his wand, and despite knowing the Frenchman couldn’t use it in the magical dead zone Draco had created around his rooms, Harry felt fear squeeze his heart. Draco closed the distance between them and hissed something scathing, his fist connecting with the other man’s nose. Benedict staggered backwards with his hand clapped to his face, and Draco turned to look at Harry and said, “Leave.” There was something in the blond’s expression that made him stop, and a fleeting feeling of understanding came over him at the simple command. He didn’t know if it was the tone, or the way his Healer’s face was set, but he felt that Draco cared and was trying to protect him. 

Luna followed Harry to the bedroom, but she didn’t enter with him. She closed the door, and he could still hear them through the heavy wood. 

“Get out!” Draco snapped, followed by something else that Harry couldn’t understand. The only thing he could be certain of was that he heard a door slam, and then Luna opened the bedroom door.

“What’s going on?” Harry demanded.

“They’re going to duel.”

“Why?”

“Because Benedict threatened you,” she said.

“What? When?”

“When he pulled his wand. Draco’s not happy,” she said airily. 

“I know that, but what if he—” Harry was cut off by a loud crash from another room outside his suite, and he looked at Luna, and pleaded with her to see if everything was all right. He was worried that something might happen to Draco. 

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Luna said, and quickly left the room. A few moments later, she returned, and Harry held up his hands in a gesture that said ‘Well?’ “He’s taking dinner in the study. You can come out now.”

Harry was a nervous wreck through dinner. Draco hadn’t joined them, and concentrating on the meal, no matter how delightful the roast lamb tasted, was harder than ever. He excused himself politely, albeit quickly, and went back to his rooms, with Luna following behind. She tried to keep him occupied, but he really wasn’t listening. Instead, he was thinking about what he wanted to do with his future once everything was over. Being an Auror had been brilliant, but realistically, he had to start thinking of what would happen if he wasn’t able to walk again. Starting over would be easy enough: he could get rid of Hightrees; find employment in the wizarding world that didn’t require the use of his legs; and hopefully put the pieces of his broken life back together. Eventually he’d have to face telling Kingsley that he wouldn’t be returning, and he made up his mind that it would be best not to delay the inevitable. It would make things easier in the long run, even if he had been happy with his job. But he also realised he’d been doing it for so long that it, too, had become another one of the expectations that he had come to realise defined his adult life as much as earlier expectations – that he would kill Voldemort, principally – had defined his adolescence. No, he’d do what made him happy from now on, not what others expected, not what others defined for him – because he knew, even if the rest of the wizarding world couldn’t see it, that he’d been unhappy; he was just a man, with desires, needs, and expectations, too. 

Luna kept Harry company for as long as possible, but eventually the evening began to turn inexorably to night, and she needed to go home to her husband. Not long after she’d left, Draco entered the sitting room, and Harry couldn’t hold in the gasp of surprise at seeing him. He was dressed comfortably enough, but there was a much more pronounced stiffness to his tall frame as he moved, and his face – his face made Harry’s stomach sink uncomfortably. Across the blond’s left cheek was a large, purple bruise, and the skin appeared to have been scraped off at uneven intervals, stretching to his temple – almost as though his face had been dragged across tarmac. 

“Merlin, Draco, you look as if you’ve been three rounds with a Horntail!”

“You should see the other bloke,” he said with a sardonic look. 

“Please tell me Mrs Prout isn’t going to have to scrape remains off the ceiling.”

“Of course not. The house-elves can attend to it.” Harry looked at his Healer for a moment, wondering whether he was serious or not.

“What the hell happened? What was he yelling in French?”

Draco’s expression went abruptly blank before he replied, “Nothing you need to know.”

“Oh, right, so he just pointed at me the entire time he was yelling, and it’s nothing I need to know? Funny that. He looks like the bloke with you in the photos of the _Prophet_.”

“He was.”

“And what has that got to do with me? Did you… break up… when you took over my care? Is that why he’s so pissed off?”

Rolling his eyes, Draco said, “No, Potter, he was absolutely delighted that his partner was leaving him in favour concentrating exclusively on work.”

Harry glared at his Healer for a moment. 

“He was under the misapprehension that you were in some way responsible on a personal level. The situation has now been duly clarified. Are you ready for your bath?”

It irritated Harry that Draco could be so nonchalant about what had happened. Instead of pressing his luck, he nodded and followed the blond into the bedroom so he could get undressed. Once in the bath, he found it hard to stop staring at the obviously painful injury running the length of Draco’s pale face, and he was pissed off that the other man had hurt the blond. Feeling the first flickers of possessiveness toward Draco, he reached a dripping hand toward his Healer’s face, his fingertips barely brushing the skin before his Healer pulled away, a droplet of water rolling down his cheek.

“Don’t start that again, Potter.”

“Why not? I’m a grown man, Draco, as you ought to be able to tell, given what you’re handling right now; I can make my own decisions.”

“We’ve been through this. It’s completely inappropriate. I am your Healer and nothing more, and that’s the way it has to stay.”

“But you’ve said you want—”

“And I’ve said that what I want is immaterial. I _will not_ abuse a patient in my care, no matter how nicely he asks. For one thing, it’s so wrong that ‘wrong’ doesn’t even begin to define it; and, for another, I have no desire whatever to be struck off. I _know_ you’re prepared to swear on your parents’ immortal souls right now that this is what you want and you wouldn’t complain to the Ministry or the Healers’ Council, but the odds of you continuing to be of that mind when you’re recovered are negligible. You’ve been stuck with practically nobody around you but me for almost six months. That in and of itself is capable of persuading you into an attachment, but on top of that I’ve held your life in my hands and supported you through considerable trauma; I’m the only person around you who has consistently put your best interests before any other considerations, and you’ve fallen into the habit of being comfortable with this sort of physical intimacy. It’s only natural that you’d… latch onto me as an object of affection.”

“It’s more than that,” Harry said sincerely, trying to feign the calm he didn’t feel. For now, he decided, he wouldn’t argue with his Healer. 

Draco sniffed, but was apparently not minded to continue the debate. “A Ministry Occupational Therapist and Occupational Psychologist will be coming to assess you on Wednesday.”

Giving in to the change of subject, Harry replied, “Okay.” With a contented sigh, he relaxed as much as possible, watching Draco’s hands as they moved over his body. It was entirely too arousing to see those pale hands cross every inch of his flesh every day, and he breathed in and out slowly, trying just to enjoy the feeling; he had no idea how long he’d have it. When Draco’s arm drew closer to his face, he noticed the faint outline of scars for the first time, and, without thinking, said, “Did you try to kill yourself or something?”

“No. A hippogriff tried to take my arm off in the third year.”

“Oh. Wait, you weren’t just faking?” Harry asked, startled by the disclosure. The flare of Draco’s nostrils told Harry all he needed to know, and he quickly said, “I’m sorry. I just always– thought that—” he sighed, “—you were faking.” And as he had done with Draco’s face, his hand moved without him thinking, his fingertips aching to trace the jagged silvery indentions where Buckbeak’s claws had torn into the blond’s arm, but Draco pulled away again. “Why did it leave a scar?”

“Sometimes wounds are too deep for Essence of Dittany to heal. You still have scars on your hand,” he said, continuing to bathe Harry.

“From Umbridge’s quill. ‘I must not tell lies’,” Harry recited harshly, looking at the faded, but still legible, words on the back of his hand. 

After that, Harry endured the heavy silence in the bathroom, and, following his bath, he prepared to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. During his stretches, Harry caught himself moaning appreciatively again as the stiffness was eased from him. When Draco got to his legs, though, he hissed in discomfort, his muscles taut from not only the stiffness that had never eased from the moment he had woken, but also from the stress of Benedict’s having shown up. Always attentive to Harry’s needs and any changes in his status, though, Draco stopped and asked him a few questions about how it felt, and how long it had persisted. Explaining that he had woken up that way was easy enough, and he admitted that it had got worse after his Healer had engaged in his duel with the Frenchman. There was no reply to that, but Harry hadn’t expected one, and when the routine had been completed, he told Draco that he wanted to go to sleep then. He was tired, and the day’s events had worn him out far more than he’d first thought. Remembering that Draco had spent most of the day with Bill, trying to break the Fidelius Charm on Hightrees, he was curious whether or not they had succeeded, and decided to ask about it before Draco departed for the evening.

“Were you and Bill able to break the Fidelius Charm?” Harry asked as Draco helped him adjust comfortably, the faint sound of the rubber sheet beneath him reminding him of how little control over his body he had.

“I believe so, yes.”

He nodded, and Draco turned to leave. “Goodnight, Draco,” Harry yawned.

“Goodnight, Potter.”

In the darkness of the bedroom, Harry lay awake for a while, thinking. It was all he ever did lately, and it occurred to him that the Occupational Psychologist visiting might help him, hoped that this Ministry clinician would be able to help him make it clear that there was more to what he felt than the dependence of a patient towards his Healer as Draco had said. That he had a plan in mind made him feel good. At least it was something to look forward to – apart from Draco making any headway with his condition, of course. Knowing that getting some sleep would be a good idea, Harry took a few breaths and tried to concentrate on anything but the return of his erection. He really hated that he couldn’t grip his cock properly any more – his hands and arms just tired too easily for him to achieve any satisfaction from making the attempt. He sighed as he shifted in bed, and stopped when he heard something strange. There was nothing for a moment, and then it started again, slowly. The low, vibrant tone of a cello filtered into the room. It was quite nice, he reflected, a bit more lively than he usually preferred, but it was still enjoyable, and he smiled faintly as the tune eventually changed to something more like the instrument weeping, and he closed his eyes, allowing the music to drag him into a peaceful, dreamless slumber.

****

~*~*~*~

The bathroom was moist, the soft scents of his bath permeating the small room as Draco stood before him, his expression unreadable. Harry tried to avoid looking at the horrible scrape that marred Draco’s handsome features, but it didn’t detract from the way Harry felt when he looked at him. Most of the time, making eye contact with his Healer heralded an impulsive drive to reach out and touch him or kiss him, but he knew that probably wasn’t the wisest course of action at present. Instead, he contented himself with the way Draco touched him – listening to his hands – and smelt. Even with the scent of Harry’s own soap and shampoo permeating the room, he could still smell Draco: fresh and clean like green moorland after a summer rain. A brush swept his face, spreading the white foam across his jaw and neck, preparing him to be shaved. The razorblade caught the light, drawing Harry’s attention. This was the third time Draco had had to shave him, his hands being too unsteady to do it himself. Odd though he found it, he liked being able to trust another person this much; it was unlike anything he’d ever felt.

“Are you sure you trust me, then, Potter?” Draco asked, a faint smirk curling his lips.

“Absolutely,” Harry said earnestly as he closed his eyes and felt the blade run across his skin. Draco’s hands were incredibly steady as he moved the implement, steady strokes removing the stubble that had darkened his face. At one point, he opened his eyes, watching his Healer work, but refrained from saying what was on his mind. He was to meet with the Occupational Psychologist that day, and while he had made up his mind to use it to his advantage, he was still uneasy with discussing his attraction to the other man. He knew deep down that he’d never really made any decisions for himself that hadn’t included worrying about someone else’s feelings, and he was determined not to let others’ expectations run his life any more. He wanted Draco, and he wasn’t willing to give up, even though his Healer seemed adamant that he would not be indulging his fantasies at any point in the future. 

“Weasley and Granger will be calling today,” Draco said, forcing Harry back to the present.

“When?”

“After your session with the Ministry Healers.”

“Right,” Harry replied, washing his face with warm water since Draco had finished.

Now that Harry actually woke up on his own most mornings, they had changed the routine so he had stretches before breakfast, and Draco could begin his research immediately. Harry had grown so accustomed to his Healer joining them that when he excused himself politely, saying that he needed to begin his work, the corners of Harry’s mouth tugged down slightly; he barely saw the blond except at meals and first thing in the morning and at night. Not allowing Harry a moment to be distracted by the blond’s absence, Mrs Malfoy engaged him in polite conversation. He listened to her stories about her days at Hogwarts, which included light and surprisingly amicable anecdotes about his father and mother that he’d never heard from anyone else, and it made him smile broadly. Mrs Prout cleared their plates, humming a light tune that sounded like one of the pieces Harry had heard the previous night as he had been trying to sleep. Narcissa poured him some tea, and between sips, Harry asked, “Is it you that’s musical? I heard someone playing music last night.” 

She smiled faintly. “My talents do not extend in that direction, sadly. Draco is the musician; he inherits the aptitude from his paternal grandfather. He plays for me as a special treat, from time to time.” _That_ , Harry thought, _explains the calloused fingers._

Seeing that Narcissa had answered his question, he decided to see if she might be willing to share more details, and asked, “Will you tell me about Draco? It's weird, I've sort of known him most of my life, and he's shared a house with me for six months, but I barely know him at all. I didn't know he plays the cello; I didn’t even know he speaks French.” Harry sighed, wondering if he should really even be having this conversation with Draco’s mother; after all, he was just his Healer’s patient. It was easy to feel resentment for his ‘out of bounds’ role in Draco’s life, but Harry forced it aside and tried to focus on Narcissa. He wasn’t sure what to do, really. Draco had admitted to wanting to kiss him, to wanting to have sex with him, yet he had fought the entire way, and Harry, having seen evidence of the blond’s obvious consideration of his opinion in some things – the tea – confused him, especially since Draco was adamant that the attraction Harry felt toward him was unhealthy and inappropriate. But why would his Healer do things like that unless Harry really mattered to him? Luna seemed to think that Harry just had to figure him out, but it wasn’t that simple. He wanted it to be, but for every wall he made it through, there were ten more in place, even stronger than the previous one. He didn’t like being confused and unsure of himself. 

Narcissa appeared thoughtful for a moment before saying, “My son clearly holds you in high regard, Mr Potter.” Harry stopped for a moment and tried to figure out what that meant exactly and what it had to do with his question. He wasn’t able to give it much thought, though, because she continued, “He changed a great deal after the war. Azkaban was difficult for him, and being Lucius Malfoy’s son, the years following that were equally trying. One doesn't discuss these things, of course. It’s not our way, and certainly not Draco’s. He’s an intensely private person; he always has been, but more so since the aftermath of the war. No doubt having Aurors and St Mungo’s counsellors and sundry other persons poking at every thought, feeling, and memory he’s ever had contributed to it in some measure.” She paused for a moment, and Harry waited for her to continue. “He had to learn self-control during the year leading up to your final confrontation with Voldemort: the alternative would have been a singularly gruesome death. I simply don’t know everything he faced that year. I tried to protect him as best I could, but my position was… also less than strong at that time. I’m sure you can understand that, Mr Potter.”

Harry nodded in response, not knowing what to say. They’d all changed since then. “He changed his tea because I said the smell makes my stomach turn.” Harry spoke more to himself than to Narcissa, but she replied anyway.

“That’s Draco through and through,” she said, a faint smile playing at her lips. Harry didn’t understand what she meant, especially considering how Draco continued to pull away from him. He was starting to doubt whether he’d ever get past the façade. 

Further conjecture about Draco ended, though, when Mrs Prout entered the room, informing Harry that the Ministry Healers had arrived. _This is it,_ he thought.

****

~*~*~*~

The sun’s warming gaze sent a feeling of comfort through Harry’s overtaxed body as he sat, listening to Ron talk about how much work Hermione had him doing for their anniversary party in another week and a half. Ron was lucky, Harry thought, that Hermione had had to leave rather than sit and listen to her husband go on about how much he hated having to pick colours and food. He complained from time to time that George wouldn’t be able to set off any his newest fireworks, but Harry just shrugged, and looked at the packages that had arrived from London while he’d been with the Ministry Healers. The complaints, Harry knew, were Ron’s way of keeping away from the uncomfortable topic of having had to assist Harry to change into a pair of his new trousers and shirt. The redhead had kept pressing for why he wanted to change, rather than helping immediately, a reason to delay an awkward situation, but Harry had refused to share his actual reason – that he wanted to feel good, look good, and there was that small part of him that wanted to bask in the glow of Draco’s approval, if he got it, of course. The less like a human he felt, the more he wanted to pretend at least to feel like one, and that had meant reluctantly asking Ron for help to put on his new trousers and button his shirt for him after his hands began shaking after only two had been pushed through the small holes. 

During the conversation, Harry realised he needed to use the toilet and he asked Ron to get Draco for him. He began to make his way to the bathroom when Ron left the room quickly. Moments later, Draco entered and helped Harry get situated before giving him a moment’s privacy to move his bowels. Harry still flushed scarlet whenever Draco had to wipe his arse, so he looked away until the Healer was done and had washed his hands, helping Harry re-dress and sit in his chair again afterwards. There was a moment when Draco looked at Harry, an expression he’d only seen one other time coming over his face; he’d seen it the day his Healer had discovered the sang de boeuf bowl in his sitting room at Hightrees, and felt the warm heat of shyness in his cheeks as he said, “I’m glad you like it.” The blond gave no response, but Harry hadn’t expected one, really; it wasn’t Draco’s way, he was learning, to respond when the implied meaning of his expression had been understood, and Harry wondered how long before Draco caught on that his patient was beginning to figure him out and deliberately started altering his expressions.

Harry emerged into the sitting room, where Ron was perched on the edge of the sofa, his shoulders hunched, his mouth in a slight frown. “Ron?” Harry asked, wondering what was bothering the redhead as he watched Draco leave the room – still visibly stiff.

“Hmm?” he asked, looking up.

“What’s the matter?”

Ron’s face reddened quite a bit as he looked at Harry, his mouth moving with no words coming out. He seemed to get his bearings and asked, “Don’t you ever – er – worry that Malfoy’s going to… you know… take advantage of you ’cause you need his help?”

It was Harry’s turn to colour at the insinuation that his Healer would take him up on what he was freely offering and he stopped mid-thought, realising that the question had, in reality, been a long time coming. “No,” he choked. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “No, Draco’s not going to take advantage of me.”

“How do you know? He’s _bent_ , and really, Harry, you can’t say he doesn’t—” 

“Ron, he’s not going to. Trust me,” Harry said, wishing Ron would drop it.

“How do you know?”

Harry closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but he was finding speaking the truth a bit harder than he had anticipated. The truth was he had been fine with just Luna knowing about his feelings for his Healer, but he was also aware that Ron wouldn’t let it drop until he had the answer he wanted, which meant, Harry assumed, that nothing less than every detail explaining why he had no fear of the blond taking advantage of him. 

“Harry?” Ron asked expectantly. 

“He won’t,” Harry began, speaking slowly so there was no chance his words would be misinterpreted, “because I want him to and he keeps saying no, all right?”

“What?” Ron’s face paled slightly. “You’re having me on, right?”

“No.”

“Why would you—”

“I didn’t exactly plan it—”

“Why?” Ron asked in incredulity. Harry had to admit that he thought Ron would have gone ballistic at the news, but his friend seemed more shocked than appalled by Harry’s words. He looked at his best mate for a long moment before exhaling harshly.

“I don’t know. I-I didn’t plan on it happening, obviously; it just did. Living with him and spending so much time with him—” Harry stopped and took a deep breath. “He’s not like he was at Hogwarts, you know? I just sort of started to fancy him one day, and on New Year’s Eve, I tried to… tried to kiss him.”

“You kissed Malfoy?” Ron asked; his voice had that same strangled tone when he was around spiders.

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t kiss me back.” Harry shook his head, trying to work out the easiest way to explain his attraction to Draco to Ron. “I just… He’s—” Harry stopped. “I can’t explain it; I just know how I feel. I tried to explain it to that Healer that I had to talk to today, but I really can’t.”

“No, stop. I don’t want to hear it,” Ron said. Harry looked at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he had said it out of disgust or not. “I don’t want to know. I-I,” he tried, failing. “It’s Malfoy, Harry. No, you know what, I don’t want to know. I don’t understand it, and I don’t need you to explain. You fancy Malfoy,” he said, shaking his head slightly, his hands held before him, palms facing Harry like a shield, confusion written across his face as though a child had scribbled on his cheeks and neck in crayon, the varying shades of red and pink showing how embarrassed the redhead was with the conversation.

“Ron,” Harry said, “I want your word that you _will not_ say anything.”

“Yeah, whatever you want, mate. _Malfoy!_ ” 

The door opened and Mrs Prout walked in, her hands full of laundry, and their conversation ended – not a moment too soon, Harry thought. He didn’t want to know what Ron thought of Draco bathing Harry, or what he’d say if Harry told him that Draco did fancy him, but just refused to do anything about it. Ron cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Harry watched as Mrs Prout entered Draco’s room with his clothes. He decided not to think about it too much at that moment, and when the door closed behind the housekeeper, Ron hastily began talking about the Ministry, new cases, and what was going to happen to the Death Eaters that had been apprehended and jailed again in the failed escape attempt at Christmas. 

When he’d had enough of the redhead’s _cheerful_ reminders of what he wouldn’t ever have again, he said, “I’m not going back.”

“Going back to what?”

Harry shook his head in irritation. “I’m not going back to work as an Auror, even if Draco figures out what’s wrong with me.”

“But you have to, mate!”

“I can’t. I don’t want to do it any more. If this has taught me anything, it’s that I need to do something for myself.”

“But—” Ron tried, but Harry interrupted him.

“I can’t go back—” the door opened and Draco strode in, “—when I’ve spent my whole life doing things because they were what was expected of me. Even if Draco figures this out, it could be years before I’m back to normal, if I’m _ever_ back to normal, and I need to do something else; I need to live. I don’t know what I want to do yet, but I’m not going to be an Auror any more.”

“That’s what you always wanted to do, though.” Ron looked at Harry. “You’ll get better. You always get better – no matter what happens. If old Snake Face couldn’t kill you, this won’t either.”

Ron’s words stung more than Harry wanted to admit. He knew his friends wouldn’t understand his decision; they were part of the problem, always pushing for him to be just like them, to settle down and marry because that’s what they had done, and have kids, and be the perfect Auror for the Ministry, always upholding the law and never making any mistakes. The only problem was that Harry had made plenty of mistakes, he’d done a lot of stupid things, and his time in the wheelchair had given him ample opportunities to analyse everything, think about the things he should have done rather than the things he had done, and staring at Ron’s uncomprehending face hurt – a lot. Ron, like the rest of the wizarding world, assumed that he was completely unbreakable, some benevolent and heroic icon. But he wasn’t. He was just as broken as Luna had said, and if she had seen it, why couldn’t the rest of the world?

Calming the maelstrom of emotions that coursed through him took some effort, and he attempted to rein it in as fingernails, bitten and jagged, tore at the skin of his palms as he tried to refrain from telling Ron how much of a bastard he was. Draco stood silent, and Harry just wanted him to leave, wanted both of them to leave him alone so he’d stop feeling the need to lash out in frustration. Harry thought he had made the blond understand how he felt about being the ‘Saviour’, but he interpreted Draco’s silence as him being just like everyone else. 

Pain, constant and grounding, ripped through his bottom lip as he tried to still his tongue from cutting his best mate. 

“Weasley, I think it’s time for you to go. You’re upsetting my patient.”

“Upset? What are you on about?” Ron demanded.

“Now, Weasley. Out.”

“Harry?” Ron asked. 

“Just go, Ron,” Harry replied, his voice strained.

There was a loud _clap_ from Ron’s hands hitting his legs in frustration and he got up and stalked toward the door, stomping off toward the entrance hall of the Manor, and Harry looked at the floor. He heard the fabric of Draco’s shirt and trousers rustling softly as he moved toward the door. Harry’s palms began to ache with cramps from his clenched fists, his jaw tensing. 

“I’ll be in the library,” Draco said as he followed the redhead. When Harry didn’t hear the door click closed, his head snapped up. He just wanted a few moments alone before dinner to centre himself, and he turned on the power of his chair and glided toward the heavy door. Reaching out to touch the heavy wood, he heard Draco speaking. His Healer didn’t sound like he was close to the sitting room, but his voice had always carried well, and Harry could easily hear every word. He felt odd listening, but hearing Ron’s voice with Draco’s, he couldn’t readily pull himself away. Part of him wondered if Draco had intentionally left the door ajar, and he looked at both men, Ron defensive, and his Healer as unflustered as always.

“I understand that your frankly idiotic heroic aspirations make your overwhelming fallibility something of a sore point, but I must insist that you stop upsetting my patient with your problems. If you genuinely believe that Potter would... what, fall out with you?... over your failure to wait for the opportune moment, instead leaping headlong into the fray and dragging him with you, thereby exposing him to any number of deeply unpleasant consequences, one or more of which may be intimately related to his current circumstances, you underestimate his capacity for wrong-headed loyalty and nauseating sentimentality. Short of turning out to be responsible for his parents' murder, there's nothing he won't forgive you if you apologise sincerely enough. I can't believe I actually have to tell you that. Merlin, _which_ one of us has been his best friend since he was eleven?” 

“You don’t know anything about Harry, Malfoy,” Ron said in a low voice, his tone dangerous.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Just keep telling yourself that, Weasley. You never know; you might start to believe it eventually.”

Ron was about to say something when Harry found his voice, realisation hitting him like a blow to the chest. “What are you two on about?” Harry snapped. Ron’s head jerked toward Harry, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. Draco, Harry noticed, blinked rapidly a few times before quickly composing himself and replying. 

“Moral philosophy. I’ll let Weasley explain it to you some other time,” Draco drawled.

“Ron?”

It was always easy to tell when Ron was lying or embarrassed about something. He, like Harry, never could hide any of his emotions, and the scarlet staining his previously pink face, ears, and neck was all the evidence Harry needed. 

“Nothing,” he stammered. “I’ll see you around, Harry.” Ron left, and Draco followed, going to the library. It took Harry a moment, but he realised that Draco _never_ made any statements about where he could be found… And the tone of his voice resounded in Harry’s ears; it had been softer somehow, an obvious invitation to call on him should Harry wish to speak to him. He could only guess what it meant, and he closed the door, moving toward the window to look out at the gardens.

It took a while before Harry calmed enough to stop grinding his teeth together in frustration. Talking with Ron had made him contemplate his previous life as an Auror more, and the vivid memory of his one recurring dream, apart from the erotic ones about his Healer, since Voldemort, surfaced in his thoughts. That night in Brighton, Harry and Ron had been sent to investigate a group of rogue Death Eaters. They had followed them for months, learning their habits, learning where they met, since only two of them stayed together in one place at a time, and Harry and Ron had followed them to an empty field where the other two Death Eaters had Apparated to join their companions. They had been close to Muggle homes, and after tracking the Dark Lord’s followers for so long, Harry and Ron had realised that an attack on the unsuspecting Muggles had been imminent if the four Death Eaters were gathering. There had been a grey stone wall, the only thing hiding them from the black-robed figures, and he remembered quite clearly that he had told Ron to wait, but his partner and best mate hadn’t waited. He’d jumped out from behind their cover before Harry could stop him, and the fight had begun.

Harry hadn’t realised he had forgotten that had happened, but Draco’s wording to Ron had suggested that he knew exactly how that night's events had played out, and then he recalled that his Healer had said he had been viewing Ron’s memories… He clenched his fist again, his knuckles turning white until he could no longer control the shaking that started at his balled fingers and crept up his arm. Now some of Ron’s behaviour over the past few months made sense to Harry, and he exhaled angrily. A soft knock at the door came, and Harry called out for whomever it was to enter. Mrs Prout informed him that dinner was ready, so he left the room and waited patiently for Narcissa to join him.

Harry was quiet through dinner, and Narcissa respected his obvious strain and fatigue and therefore concomitant preference for quiet at the table. He was thankful that she seemed to understand he wasn’t in the mood to talk – not with everything crashing down around him. When he’d eaten his fill, which wasn’t much that evening, he returned to his room and slowly began to undress, ready for his bath. He undid the first few buttons of his shirt, loosening the cuffs and slid the soft fabric over his head, placing it on a hanger before starting on his belt and trousers. By the time he’d finished, Draco was already there, helping him remove the rest of his clothes before taking him to bathe. 

Just for once, he wished that he could wash himself, to have that small bit of independence back and be able to indulge the steady arousal that accompanied his Healer’s presence, but the tension of the day melted away with Draco’s tender attentions to his body, and he remembered why he liked this part of his routine so much. They were both silent except for the occasional sigh of pleasure from Harry, which the blond ignored, although he was not unaffected; Harry felt the man’s arousal after nearly every bath. No matter how careful he was, Harry felt it. And knowing that he could so easily affect his Healer – just from making a few noises of pleasure and being naked – was both exciting and reassuring of his own attractiveness, but it was intensely frustrating that Draco was obdurate in his refusal to acknowledge or act on it. Once he was dry and in bed, Draco began the evening routine, and, for once, he wasn’t silent. “I’ve made some progress,” he began. “I've been able to identify the curse you were hit with in Brighton. It’s called _Malleus Mentis_.”

“What’s that mean?” Harry asked, his tumultuous emotions pushed to the back of his mind at the prospect of actual progress on his condition.

“Hammer of the mind.”

Harry wasn’t certain he wanted to know the answer to what he was about to ask, but he asked anyway. “What’s it do?” 

“It aims at the weakest point in the mind and hits it like a hammer hitting the flaw in a diamond – makes it shatter. It causes a chain reaction, as it were, splintering the whole down its inherent flaw-lines into razor-edged shards. They split and split until there’s nothing left. However, that spell targets the mind only, not the body. It induces things like paranoia and madness, not muscle atrophy and general physical malaise. There is, to my knowledge and that of every living or published expert on Dark and otherwise malicious magic, no single curse capable of inflicting the level of physical damage you're suffering. _Malleus Mentis_ does match the pattern for complete and general destruction, and it definitely hit you, but it shouldn't be behaving this way. There’s clearly something interfering with it, but I don’t know what – yet. I’m running some tests now.”

“Great. _Something else_ that’s different for me.”

“I sincerely doubt that you can attribute this to some peculiar inherent trait of your own, Potter; it's overwhelmingly more likely that something else is tangled up with it, and that _that_ 's what has caused this mutation in its effect. It's just a question of identifying what. Fortunately, the field of spells which can cause this sort of mutation is rather smaller than the pool which could have been doing the damage in the first place.”

Harry nodded, trying to avoid getting his hopes up. “It’s a start,” Harry said with a sigh. He didn’t want to talk about the possibilities when Draco had no actual conclusions yet, so he focussed on the moment, and since it was the only real opportunity he’d had to speak with the blond since Narcissa had told him Draco was a musician, he reckoned he should mention having enjoyed the music. “Your mum told me you play the cello. I asked her about it because I heard you playing last night.” He smiled. “It was nice, but I liked the second piece better – the one that sounded like you made the cello cry. What was it?”

“A variation on a theme from one of Pachelbel’s compositions.” 

“Muggle composer?”

“Most of them were,” Draco said, finishing Harry’s legs. He helped him get dressed in a pair of his new pyjamas and settled in bed.

“Goodnight, Draco.”

“Goodnight, Potter,” the blond replied and left him in darkness.

****

~*~*~*~

Sometime during the night, Harry started awake when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Blinking a few times, he tried to focus on the pale face before him, and moaned softly as he adjusted his shirt. “Didn’ mean to be so loud,” he said sleepily. 

“Go back to sleep,” Draco said, and Harry was vaguely aware of the blond taking a seat in the chair at the end of his bed before he drifted off once again. 

Harry woke to the peacocks’ cries, and groaned, “Don’t they ever shut up?” as he tried to sit up. He heard movement from the bottom of his bed and turned to see Draco sitting up, his long arms extended in a stretch. 

“Morning,” Harry said as Draco stood and strode into the bathroom.

He wasn’t prepared to mention his concern over Draco’s sleeping in the chair at the end of his bed, so he busied himself with relieving his bladder and placed the bottle on his bedside table when he was done. It was odd, he thought, that he’d never been one to be comfortable enough to handle his bodily functions with another person around, but he’d never really had a problem with his Healer’s presence – except that time when Draco had caught him using the vase. And then, he had been too angry and embarrassed to ask for help after the blond’s rejection. He heard the bath start, and moments later, Draco emerged, lifted him from bed, and helped him into his chair so he could brush his teeth before bathing.

He hoped that Draco hadn’t planned on having to spend more nights in that damned chair. His Healer appeared tired enough without having to sleep sitting upright in a chair. He decided that he’d let it be – at least until it became obvious to him that Draco really was suffering negative effects from not sleeping in an actual bed. Harry emerged from the bathroom and selected something to wear. He had tried to do something to his hair while he’d been in at the sink, but it still stood up, no matter what he did, and he shoved his fingers through it, making it worse. Harry chuckled lightly as Draco helped him back into his chair and departed.

For the next few days, Harry didn’t see much of Draco, and was starting to wonder if the blond was intentionally avoiding him, as his Healer had only taken two meals with Harry and Narcissa. He was grateful that Luna had taken time away from her life to spend it with him in the evenings; Ron and Hermione were so busy that he reckoned he wouldn’t be seeing them until he went back to Hightrees, and after what he had overheard Draco say to the redhead, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see him yet. He’d been hurt that Ron hadn’t trusted him enough to think he wouldn’t forgive him. After taking a moment to think about it, though, he supposed he deserved that. Harry hadn’t always been that forgiving when he had been younger, and if anything, he realised that he hadn’t ever given Ron much of a reason to think him capable of letting a mistake go. Luna had reminded Harry that Ron hadn’t done it intentionally, and he had to agree he believed that.

After his stretches and bath that evening, Harry sat in bed with Luna lying across the covers, her feet swishing back and forth in the air. He was trying to distract himself from his aching erection, and briefly considered taking the blonde up on her offer to help relieve him, but he couldn’t do it – not when he knew how much it had hurt him to discover Ginny’s infidelity. Luna and Rolf had a strange marriage, to Harry’s mind. She had explained it once to Harry that neither she nor Rolf felt that having sex with another person interfered with the love they shared; it was, essentially, two different things to them. He couldn’t have had a relationship like that – at least, he didn’t think he could. Living with Draco and experiencing his attraction to the other man had taught him that he had quite a possessive streak – only he hadn’t ever known it when he’d been with Ginny. He wondered if it had something to do specifically with Draco, but he couldn’t be sure. It was difficult enough not to think about the blond when his Healer had just had his hands all over Harry’s body. Luna smiled, as though she knew what he was thinking, and instead of tormenting himself by recalling the sensations that Draco’s hands evoked within his body, he decided to tell Luna about his meeting with the Ministry psychologist.

It was funny, he thought, that the first thing the psychologist had said and had made sure Harry had understood had been that Draco – as his treating clinician – would be receiving a copy of the report based on the content of their interview, and it had been that moment when Harry had decided definitely, even with the little voice in the back of his mind telling him it was a bad idea, that he would discuss his growing feelings for his Healer. When the older wizard had begun asking questions about Ginny and inquiring about his future, Harry had decided, blushing crimson, to talk about everything that had happened to him, his most recent decisions, and the things he had discovered about himself since Christmas. He had been almost brutally honest with the psychologist, telling him about Draco’s rejection, his reasons for rejecting Harry, and he had tried to articulate what it was about his Healer that he had begun falling for. It hadn’t been an easy interview – not with so many questions about sexuality, his fantasies, his health, and his decision not to be an Auror any longer.

The older man had asked very specific questions regarding Draco’s professionalism, and Harry had done his best to make the wizard understand that his Healer had never taken advantage of him, had never given in to his advances, and had always made it clear that any relationship between them would be completely inappropriate. He had had to explain a bit about their past, and the psychologist had asked Harry how he spent his days when Draco wasn’t around. When the psychologist had concluded his questions and had asked if Harry had anything else to add, he had taken the opportunity to explain how he felt like he was making a decision for himself for the first time in his life. How Draco had no expectations of him as the Boy Who Lived, and that being more than anyone else had ever really given him. He had talked about Ron, Hermione, Luna, and Neville, and when the session had concluded, he had felt better. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d tried. 

Luna offered him a soft smile and took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. They sat in a comfortable silence until a mournful tune filtered through the room. Listening to the slow build of notes, a soft knock at the door, briefly interrupting the crescendo, stole Harry’s attention. He called for whomever it was to come in, and Mrs Prout entered with a small tray in her hand, a smile on her face. 

“Mrs Malfoy asked me to bring this to you, before she retired for the evening.”

“Thank you, Eleanor,” Harry said, taking the glass of warm milk and placing it on his bedside table. For a brief moment, the sound was louder, and it made Harry’s heart clench tightly – no longer than it took him to inhale. The music sounded so _sad_. 

The housekeeper left, and Luna sat up with a strange look on her face. Then Harry realised what Mrs Prout had said. “Why is he still playing for his mum if she’s gone to bed?”

“It’s obvious,” she said with a dreamy smile. Harry started to reply, but Luna cut him off. “I have to go. Sleep well, Harry.” She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek before leaving.

Harry couldn’t understand why Draco would be playing for him, if he _was_ , when the blond had made it perfectly clear that he was of the mind that Harry would have better things and people to think about once his circumstances changed. Drinking the warm milk slowly, Harry enjoyed the music and eventually settled as comfortably as possible before falling asleep; he couldn’t afford to spare any more thoughts to Draco’s confusing behaviour.

In the morning, Harry woke and Draco was still asleep at the end of the bed, his face peaceful. The scrape across his cheek was starting to look better, but not much, and as if his Healer knew he was watching him, he blinked awake, and excused himself to the toilet.

He wasn’t sure how he could convince Draco that he didn’t want to be with him just because he was his Healer. Knowing he was quite physically dependent on the man was one thing, but his happiness wasn’t dependent on Draco’s being around. He enjoyed the blond’s company when it was given, and having witnessed the lengths that his Healer went to for him, he couldn’t help feeling cared about. But he _knew_ what he felt wasn’t due merely to propinquity or gratitude for his Healer’s efforts. He didn’t have to be someone else with Draco, didn’t have to be the Saviour – not like he had been with Ginny and even, to some degree, Ron and Hermione. 

Long after breakfast, Harry sat reading in the sitting room. The sound of joyful laughter shattered the peace of the room, and he looked out the window to see Mrs Prout’s children running around in the garden. He smiled lightly, the pages of his book rustling slightly as he laid it on the table beside him. The sound of the door opening made him look up, and Mrs Prout entered, two letters clutched in her hand. Harry took them from her, and opened the one from Hermione first. He read the invitation to the anniversary party quickly, smirking at seeing _Ron and Hermione Weasley_ — he rarely ever saw that any more, and like Draco, still thought of her as Granger since she used her maiden name for work – printed across the top. He placed it on the table beside his book and then opened the second; it was a brief note from Neville, saying that he had time to meet with Harry over the Easter holidays. He would have to check with Draco before giving Neville the details on where to meet, and decided that he’d ask his Healer about it later that evening. Mrs Prout dismissed herself, and Harry returned to his book, idly flipping the pages in efforts to avoid dwelling on the things he couldn’t change. Eventually the laughter outside his room dissipated, peace reclaiming his surroundings, until the door clicked open and Draco stalked in, tossing an envelope into Harry’s lap.

“Very clever, Potter,” he said.

Confused, Harry took a moment to open it and read the papers, realising it was from the Healer who had interviewed him. A broad grin split his face, and he replied, “I just told him the truth and answered his questions.”

“And suggested a few he wouldn't have thought to ask. Don't try being cute, Potter. I've conducted enough of these interviews myself to know the script.”

“I needed to make a point,” Harry said. “Didn't I?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, his anger evident in his expression. “You made it abundantly clear to anyone who has access to your confidential files that you fully intend to drag me into a sexual relationship as soon as you possibly can, my position as your treating clinician notwithstanding.”

“I’m not going to apologise.” Harry tried to rein in the petulance of his tone, but the words washed over his lips and tongue before he could think. Draco was cornered, and they both knew it.

“Naturally not.”

“You’re the one doubting my reasons for being attracted to you, for wanting to be with you.”

Draco appeared nettled. Harry could tell from the blond’s expression and the tone of his voice that he had made his point. There was no other reason for his Healer to be so visibly upset unless he knew that his argument lacked the strength it had once had. Harry might not be as clever as Draco or Luna, but he could see clearly enough that the battle his Healer had been waging with himself was just beginning to turn in his favour. “And it doesn't occur to you to question _my_ motives?” 

“Yes, because you keep on protesting that you’re just looking out for my best interests and then behaving as if you’re _trying_ to drive me completely out of my mind with confusion and frustration! Merlin, just admit to it and fuck me, or stop _doing stuff_ that makes me feel so bloody loved,” Harry replied. “There's never been any doubt that you've acted appropriately. But I'm not going to apologise for being honest about wanting to be with you. If you can tell me that you don't want to be with me for any reason other than your being my Healer, I'll stop.”

“My being your Healer is enough!” he snapped.

“No, it isn't. It's a convenient excuse.”

“My career might not mean anything to you, but it's rather important to me. Call me petty by all means.”

“Draco, it would take me reporting you and supporting allegations or proof for your career to suffer. No one, and I mean _no one_ , who knows about my feelings would ever support any accusations. They trust me, and if this is what I want, they won’t interfere.”

“Do you have the slightest idea how hard you're making it for me to do my bloody job?”

“What makes it so hard? You're already running yourself ragged without my input anyway, so don't blame this on me. You hardly sleep as it is, and it's not like I'm interfering or asking you for anything when I'm capable of doing it myself. I don't call you every five minutes. Tell me what makes it so hard. Because you care? I don’t understand.”

Draco shook his head in response, obviously angry. “I have work to do. I doubt you're remotely interested, but one of the models I'm running seems promising. With any luck, I might have some actual news on a way forward for you before the week's out.”

“I'm not going anywhere, so don't rush on my account." Harry laughed slightly. “Maybe if you'd explain how I'm making it so hard to do your job, I could understand.”

Draco shook his head again and left Harry alone, the papers still crumpled in his hand. He sat distracted until Mrs Prout informed him that lunch was served, and Harry joined Narcissa, quite frustrated. He thought he had been doing the right thing, that talking with the Ministry Healer about his situation would have helped him, but Draco just seemed put off by it more than anything, and the confusion mounted until it felt like a physical weight resting on his shoulders.

He left the sitting room, taking the envelope with him. Despite his fear that Narcissa might say the same thing Draco had, he hoped that her remark about Draco holding him in high regard counted for something, and with his shoulders squared, asked her if she would read the report. She accepted the envelope from Harry and silently scanned the page before handing it back to him.

“I presume that you wished to communicate something by showing me that.”

“Am I wasting my time?” he asked. “On Draco? I asked him to give me a reason other than him being my Healer; I told him I'd stop if there was one, and he seems to think that's enough, but I can't see that. It would take a lot of evidence to prove he takes advantage of me, and none of my friends would ever bring it up. If I don't, no one will, and I have no intention of it. I-I think I’m in love with him,” he said, his face hot and red even as he felt the relief of talking about the way he was feeling to someone impartial and definitely better placed to comment on Draco’s likely thoughts than any of his friends.

Narcissa inclined her head thoughtfully and replied indirectly. “It took Draco some considerable time to develop a realistic sense of morality. You would appear to be asking him to abandon principles that he struggled to assimilate in the first place. You must understand, Mr Potter, that that doesn't arise from any inherent malice in him. His upbringing... was not exactly conducive to an appreciation of scruples as commonly understood,” she said. “To abandon that which he worked hard to achieve... would be philosophically uncomfortable.”

“Then why does he go out of his way to do things for me?” Harry asked. “The tea, the music, sleeping in that chair…? He made Ron leave…. I don’t understand why he’d do that to me or himself if he’s so opposed to a relationship.”

“There is a difference, Mr Potter, between cherishing the tenderer feelings and acting upon them,” she said, smiling faintly. “Draco will do all that lies within his power to give you comfort or pleasure, in the everyday sense. So doing in no way contravenes his moral code of honour. Moving beyond everyday gestures would be a rather different proposition.”

“It always comes back to duty,” Harry scoffed. “He needs to stop, then, because it's too confusing.” Harry knew what Narcissa was saying was right, but it didn’t stop the frustration or the hurt – confusion – that accompanied one of Draco’s kind gestures, gestures that went beyond the actions of a Healer simply doing his duty. 

“I believe that I can say with absolute certainty that Draco has no desire to distress you. Quite the reverse, in fact. But he is... has _become_ a creature of order and rules. He has been punished for failure to conform and comply to a degree which renders any course of action entailing disobedience to established rules profoundly disturbing to him.”

“I’ll protect him," he said softly. “He keeps saying I'm making things hard for him, but he doesn't seem to see how it's hard for me. To know that someone desires you, and refuses to act on it, but still gives you far more than anyone else ever has cared to, is just fucking unfair." Harry looked up and apologised quickly for his language, his face heating up again.

Narcissa smiled faintly.

“I don't want to give up on him,” Harry admitted softly, looking at his hands. He wasn’t ashamed of how he felt about Draco, but he was more than a little embarrassed that he was sharing his feelings with Draco’s mother, even if it _was_ in an attempt to gain some solid footing in a situation that was far from simple. 

“You must understand that Draco seeks to protect both of you. He is tenacious at the best of times, but more so than ever where the welfare of one whom he holds in high regard is concerned, and he will invariably look to the long term rather than the short,” Narcissa said. “Let us have the word with no bark on it. You believe that you love my son. I can assure you that he... cares deeply for you. You wish to enter into a sexual liaison with him which his scruples at present forbid. Are you unable to wait until such a time as his scruples need no longer be a bar, or merely unwilling?”

“‘I’ll be the last person you'll want to have around’ is what he says about when this is over. If it's ever over. I'm scared... that it won't be, and that for the first time I’m actually happy about something, I won't ever have it,” Harry said. A measured inhale and exhale from Mrs Malfoy made him look up.

“And his view on your prognosis is similarly negative?”

“What prognosis?” Harry asked, almost laughing. “It's a guessing game. All he knows is that it’s a curse gone wrong. It isn’t acting like it’s supposed to, he says.” 

Narcissa nodded slowly. “Then if you do, as you assert, nourish serious intentions towards my son, my advice would be to persevere. His will is strong, but not unbreakable, particularly where that which he is driven towards is something he desires. I don't promise you an easy conquest, but I will engage... not to discourage him."

Taken aback by Narcissa’s words, Harry looked at her oddly. “You aren't against it?”

A pale eyebrow rose in response. “Do I appear to be?” 

“Honestly? I’m just a bit surprised.”

“I have no reason to mislead you, Mr Potter. I am well aware that my son is unlikely to oblige me by settling down with a nice girl and setting up his nursery. And, to speak plainly, I infinitely prefer you to his last... associate.”

“That surprises me a bit. B-Benedict – at least he was a pure-blood. I never thought I'd say I'm in love with your son, but… I am. And he doesn't see that. I had to tell that bloody Healer everything just so Draco knew I wasn't dependent on him. It was the only way I could see convincing him that I don’t want him _just_ because he’s my Healer. I really didn’t want to say anything.” 

“I presume that you mean ‘dependent’ on an emotional level," she remarked in passing, and it reminded Harry of Draco for a moment. “Your blood status is immaterial, since your liaison is unlikely to lead to offspring. The Malfoy name and line die with my son. That you care for him sincerely is all that I – as a mother – could ask.” Her tone towards the end of her speech had become almost bored, but he smiled.

Harry could be persistent. And he planned on being just that. He thought it was odd that Narcissa had been so sure that Draco cared for him deeply, and he wasn’t wholly convinced – all he’d got from Draco so far was that he harboured a sexual attraction to Harry, not that it went any deeper than that. He supposed the proof really had to be right in front of him, but it was hard to see between the lines. That Draco seemed to assume Harry would just move on once he had been cured upset him. The circumstances would eventually change, and if they didn’t, well, Harry didn’t want to think about that – not yet. He preferred fighting for something, and to him, Draco was worth the confusion and frustration, even if he couldn’t quite say why. Maybe it was just as Luna had said – that they would fit together. He needed to crack his Healer’s defences, needed to push and manipulate him since he was so hell-bent on not giving way to his desires. Harry, fortunately, had his notoriously strong will and a lot of time on his hands, and he wasn’t going to give up until Draco stopped letting his once-lacking morals interfere.

To Be Continued…


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: The Beginning of the Battle**

His much-needed talk with Neville had gone a lot more smoothly than Harry could have hoped. His former housemate was apologetic, and truthfully answered any questions that were asked of him, much to Harry’s surprised appreciation. That Neville was capable of admitting his blame in the situation made it easier for forgiveness to come, and his lingering anger abated quickly. He’d thought that he’d end up with a lecture detailing how poorly he had treated his ex-fiancée, but Neville had apparently come to the same conclusion that Harry had: that Ginny just wasn’t happy unless she was in the spotlight somehow, being able to be a part of something that had her on display for everyone to pay attention to, and hearing how unhesitatingly Ginny had knowingly seduced a pissed Neville didn’t have the same effect he thought it might; he did feel a measure of disappointment in Neville, hurt that someone he considered a friend would carry on an affair with his then fiancée for so long, knowing they would be marrying soon. He was surprised, though, that he didn’t feel any jealousy, mainly an irritated distaste for Ginny. They’d shaken hands amicably, and Harry had enjoyed the other man’s company; when it was time for Neville to meet his new girlfriend for lunch, he left, promising Harry that he’d see him at the anniversary party.

Once he was alone again, Harry’s thoughts spiralled about like a herd of deranged Hippogriffs, never giving him any rest. If he wasn’t consumed by his situation, he was thinking about the future, Draco, and his mistakes in the past. He had spent a lot of time thinking about what Narcissa had said to him, and what he had said to her, and how bloody stupid he’d been to bring up blood status. He supposed part of him had needed to know that his not being a pure-blood wouldn’t matter to her if he and Draco did manage to turn their current situation into a relationship of some sort, or at least that his blood status wouldn't have prompted her to oppose the notion of their being involved. Not now that he knew if he could crack the defences his Healer had erected, he wouldn’t have to keep fighting every step of the way. He already knew that the Healer's report had snatched the ground out from under Draco's argument that the attraction was misplaced, or a misinterpretation of trust in and recognition of Draco as his care-giver; they had believed him, stating in no uncertain terms that Harry was not emotionally dependent on Draco and that he was coping remarkably well considering his current circumstances. 

It had been important to Harry to make the point that while he loved Draco’s attention, he didn’t require it for mental and emotional stability. There was desire, though, enough desire to drive him mad most days; and lacking the reciprocity that he really wanted, despite his knowing that his Healer stood to lose a hell of a lot more than he did, made him resentful of the situation, but he was hopeful that things would work out somehow. Hope was all he really had anyway, so he was prepared to hold onto it as though his life depended on having something to fight for, something with a tangible reward at the end of it all, someone worth fighting for. That sense of purpose was going to end up getting him what he wanted in the end, and he reminded himself that patience and unflinching determination would be required, and even if he was completely out of his league, he could make things work, bring it all together the same way he had been able to save the wizarding world. Only this time he’d be protecting Draco from further scrutiny or any false accusations that he was well-aware would ruin the man’s life, and after his experiences, that was more important to him than politics and politicians and rules that had never helped him or protected him. He harboured no illusions that the consequences would be easy to deal with should Draco finally capitulate and someone found out, but he also knew that he would take matters into his own hands to shield Draco from any of the prejudice that defined the new order of the wizarding world, whatever the penalties. Kingsley had done his level best to prevent that, but people were still angry for their losses, they still wanted revenge, and if that meant grinding their heels against a man who had picked himself up off the ground to fight his way out of a situation that wasn’t his fault, then they would do it. 

At least Draco seemed to have found a vocation, despite the odds against him, that he was truly good at, even if it probably wasn’t for the same altruistic reasons that seemed to drive most choosing to become Healers. It was honourable in its own way, and respectable. All Harry had done as an Auror was continue to round up remaining members of Voldemort’s regime. He was the Boy Who Lived, so that’s what the wizarding world had wanted of him, and he had given it to them, for nearly seven years, nearly every waking moment since he had died and been given another chance at life. He hated that it had taken so many changes in his circumstances to come to all of the appropriate conclusions regarding his current situation, and he decided it had something to do with the possibility of dying again without having actually tried to live his life for himself for once. That sort of power over his destiny was heady. 

Having fallen prey the vicissitudes of popular opinion, Harry knew that if there was even a breath of rumour regarding any impropriety on Draco’s part, everything the Healer had spent the last seven years working for would be gone, and there would be no second chance; his parents hadn’t raised him with attitudes on appropriate Healer/patient interactions in the way that they had with attitudes on pure-blood superiority, and so there could be no possible explanation for his overstepping those bounds of appropriate behaviour other than his own conscious choice, no excusing some of his conduct as the result of misguided loyalty to unsound beliefs he had been raised to accept without question. 

To his dismay, he was, and had been, actively seeking to ignore both perfectly reasonable rules and basic common sense, and while he knew that Draco now adhered fiercely and proudly to good ethical behaviour, Harry couldn’t think of any valid reason why _he_ should, considering the length of time they’d already spent together. Luna’s prophetic statement about them ending up together being inevitable the moment Draco had moved in seemed to make more sense than ever. He supposed the worst thing was that he knew it was incredibly selfish on his part even to ask Draco to abandon the principles he had finally acquired over the years. Draco’s fixed determination to do what was right rather than what was easy made him respect his Healer even more, but it still didn’t change the situation, and unsure, despite the Healer’s apparent confidence, that he would live to his birthday, even if he held hope that Draco would work out what was ultimately causing the mutation to the spell that had hit him, he wanted to know that he had truly loved someone and been loved by them in return, that he had given of himself as much as he needed and desired from someone else. 

He wasn’t as noble as his colleagues, the people who sent him hordes of letters, and all of the politicians seemed to think, because he was, without thought or consideration for the consequences, absolutely certain that if he had been more able-bodied when Benedict had walked into his sitting room, he would have used one or two of the spells he had picked up from chasing Dark wizards to leave a lasting impression. Each day that he saw that bruise and scraped skin across his Healer’s face, it roused something inside him, a possessive desire to protect Draco from harm, that he had never felt for another person before. 

Harry had made up his mind, and he wasn’t willing to abandon that, even in the face of Draco’s eminently reasonable objections, not when he knew that if he just kept chipping away, he would get what he wanted. Narcissa had given her blessing and categorical assurance that Draco held Harry in high regard, that his Healer cherished the tender feelings - whatever they were, exactly. Thinking about it long enough, Harry had deduced she had been telling him, with typical indirectness, him that Draco would want more than just sex, maybe even want the same things Harry did. Evidently he’d never had those things with Benedict, if the man’s attitude when they’d met briefly was anything to go by, and he wondered if Draco had ever loved anyone. Harry thought not; and wondered if that was part of the reason why he clung so tightly to the rules, because he didn’t know what else to do with his feelings, or had no way to act on them, and then it occurred to Harry that Draco might be holding the rules as tightly as he had to Harry in the Room of Requirement so many years ago because he was scared. That was easy enough to understand, as Harry was scared, too. He was scared that he might die, or that he’d get better, but never be able to walk again and that his feelings for Draco would never mean anything, that as he had already voiced, a cripple wouldn’t be attractive or good enough for someone’s affections. He was scared because of all the people he’d known in his life, Draco seemed to know him best, and he was the one person that Harry felt completely at ease with, even if he was still trying to figure him out. There was so much more to him beneath the surface than Harry had ever cared to take notice of, and now that he was, he wanted to know more, wanted to know what had happened in the years following the war, wanted to know why he seemed to be so isolated. 

He never had visitors at Hightrees, even after Harry had invited him to entertain guests, and even while at the Manor, Draco’s interaction had still been limited to Harry and Narcissa. His Healer had effectively been existing in isolation as much as Harry had those past few months, but without the outlet Harry had, even if only by default, in Draco; and Harry knew that wasn’t healthy for him. He wanted to be able to give something back to Draco, wanted to be able to be the one Draco needed to come to if he was angry or hurt, or just wanted to be with another person without requiring words. As often as he had seen the flare of the other man’s nostrils and the thinning of his lips, he knew hurt and anger were being repressed, and he also knew that wasn’t going to help his Healer, but Harry could if Draco would let him – even if he was generally the cause of the hurt or anger; a good row was surely better than holding it all inside the way his Healer did. He supposed the only way to find out was to keep trying, though, and see where he could fit in. _Fit together…_ And maybe that was what Luna had meant about them fitting together, them both being broken; that he could fit his pieces with Draco’s, fill those holes so that they could both find their balance. Armed with determination, when the door opened and Mrs Prout informed him that lunch was ready, Harry turned on the power to his chair and left the room, sure that he was making the right decision to continue his pursuit of Draco.

**~*~*~*~**

Viola Boot, Pansy’s three-year-old-daughter, was sitting in the floor with Teddy, playing with his wizarding-events colouring book; parents could charm the images to life after their little ones had taken the crayons and scribbled all over the page – it wasn’t a magical object in the sense that some of the other books his godson had were. Her curly black hair was sticking up, much like Harry’s usually did, and it brought a smile to his face. They had just concluded lunch with Narcissa and Andromeda, the two women retiring to some other part of the Manor, leaving what Harry thought to be Draco’s oldest and closest friend staring at him with an expression that made him slightly uncomfortable. He hadn’t seen Pansy since the end of the war, and sitting with her in a social setting seemed odd to him – they had never got on, and the all-too-familiar memory of that night, before he had faced Voldemort kept him from being overly talkative. He was older and wise enough now to know that circumstances had defined many of his classmates’ actions so many years ago, but it didn’t diminish his discomfort at all. She sat with her legs crossed elegantly in the chair that faced the garden windows, and occasionally glanced at her daughter, an almost gentle smile gracing her features. Teddy grinned playfully as he held up the picture they had just finished completely disfiguring – a poorly rendered version of Harry at seventeen in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The boy’s hair was black, unlike the usual blond he had taken to adopting, and Harry had noticed that his eyes were the same pale grey as Draco’s, and an odd, fleeting hurt settled in his stomach, but was gone just as quickly. 

Draco strode into the room, his presence drawing Harry’s attention immediately, a moth entranced by fire, and Pansy quickly stood up, wrapping her arms around Draco in an embrace that appeared familiar. A spark of jealousy rose within Harry, and he turned away to compose himself, refusing to make himself look like an idiot – not when he’d done enough of that lately, and would continue to do so, at Narcissa’s suggestion that he persevere in his attempts at gaining Draco’s affections. 

“Harry! Look!” Teddy squealed happily, ripping Harry’s attention away from Draco and Pansy. Teddy had his black fringe pushed to the side with one hand and the other was held proudly in the air, displaying his tiny forearm. On the surface of his skin, a Dark Mark glared at Harry sinisterly, and he blanched, trying to stammer a response. 

“That's lovely, Teddy; very clever of you. Now change the Mark on your arm to _this_ one." Draco showed the boy his Healers’ Mark.

“Why? You've got the snake-skull-tongue one,” he said, confused, his hand dropping from his forehead, which had proudly displayed Harry’s scar. “What’s it mean?”

Draco answered, “It means I was very, very stupid. You don't want to associate with anyone who draws this. They're bad people.” Harry looked at his Healer, feeling a surge of emotion he couldn’t identify, his eyes prickling slightly. His eyes met Draco’s for just a moment, and Harry smiled softly, the blond’s gaze shifting just as quickly it had met Harry’s. He had never heard Draco say anything like that, and it made him happy. 

Teddy turned immediately toward his godfather, his expression full of alarm and confusion. 

“Er,” Harry tried and cleared his throat. “Teddy, Draco’s a good man. It’s okay.”

The child’s eyes literally bulged at Harry’s statement and he said, “But only bad people have the snake-tongue-skulls.”

Harry didn’t know what to say, so he mentally grasped for anything that might make Teddy understand. “ _Draco’s_ not a bad person. He’s a Healer; he’s trying to help me. It’s all right.”

“But Draco said—”

“Teddy, Draco’s right, but you can trust _him_.”

Teddy appeared perplexed, and Harry was grasping for any explanation a five-year-old child would believe. “I trust Draco more than anyone else. If you ever see that picture anywhere else, anywhere other than on his arm, you need to tell Andromeda, do you understand?”

“Oh,” Teddy replied. “Yes.” His eyebrows were pulled together in confusion, and Harry didn’t know what else to say. Teddy hadn’t grown up with the same fears in his life, and it would be a long time before he knew about the war and more about his parents. He felt a pang of regret at that, but he shoved it aside and watched his godson as he picked up his Harry Potter doll – the one that had been created from his likeness without his permission and whose manufacturers, like those of the colouring book, were apparently untouchable because his own face didn't belong to him, or something equally stupid – and looked at it for moment, then turned around and grinned broadly. “Harry, I need a wheelchair for my doll and a Draco to take care of him.”

The door closing quickly and a surprised Pansy standing alone covered the sputtered reply that Harry managed to give, his face blushing vibrantly. Draco had left, and Teddy returned to the colouring book with Viola, leaving Harry sitting with Pansy looking at him with an arched brow. He turned away to look out the window and exhaled slowly, eventually returning his attention to the two children. 

A shrill scream interrupted the pleasant quiet of the sitting room, and his and Pansy’s attention immediately went to the two children on the floor. Apparently Teddy had decided to rip their masterpiece in two, causing little Viola’s eyes to brim with fat tears, her face red with indignation. 

“Teddy!” Harry scolded. “Behave.”

“Harry,” he whinged, drawing the last syllable out annoyingly.

“Come sit over here, since you can’t behave properly,” Harry said, gesturing to the place beside him on the sofa. Teddy hung his head as he stood and walked toward Harry, and Pansy consoled her daughter.

“Now sit still.” Harry had seen Teddy with other children before, but he got the feeling that Teddy might like the little black-haired girl. His godson squirmed a bit through his punishment, but all it took to remind him to sit still was one look from Harry and his movements ceased. By the time Teddy was allowed to get up again, Viola had taken up residence on her mother’s hip, her head resting against Pansy’s shoulder. Not long after, Draco had returned. Harry had purposefully ignored the majority of the witch’s conversation with his Healer – whatever they were saying really wasn’t any of his business, and soon felt the weight of his antsy godson in his lap. He held him close for a bit, feeling the same pit from earlier inside his stomach. He wanted a family; he wanted to have children – a feisty one like Viola, a cheerful one like Teddy – but he knew that would probably be impossible. Soon the puffs against his neck were low and even, and Harry realised that Teddy had fallen asleep, probably full from the excitement of having a playmate and the lavish meal that had been served for lunch. It was getting on in the afternoon, so he supposed he couldn’t blame the children. He, too, felt like taking a nap, if only as a means to lie down rather than sit up; his arse was beginning to ache slightly, and Teddy’s added weight wasn’t helping the slight discomfort. 

“Draco, will you take her to the nursery?” Pansy asked. Harry cast a glance at both of them.

“Of course,” Draco said, taking the little girl from her mother. The man looked oddly right holding Viola, and a strange feeling came over Harry that he couldn’t identify before it was gone, and he watched as Draco left them alone again. Pansy took a seat again, appearing watchful, assessing him minutely, so he wondered what was coming: she had the appearance of a woman who was suspicious. She smirked, her eyes glinting with something Harry didn’t understand, but she never said anything, and that was almost unnerving. 

Draco returned, escorting the witch from the room, leaving Harry alone with Teddy in his lap. He imagined Andromeda would be around to get the boy soon, as dinnertime was approaching and they probably wouldn’t be staying, even if Pansy and Viola were, so he sat thinking. To him, the situation with Draco was much like a mission: he had to know his target well enough to get what he needed; be able to ask the right questions, without them suspecting anything – however, he knew Draco was clever and would probably surmise what he was doing; and he needed some sort of strategy, a plan of attack that would corner Draco. He had been thinking about the reactions he had received so far, and what he thought was the other man’s way of indicating he was aroused by something, and it generally followed Harry’s more vocal physio sessions or baths. If Draco thought that Harry hadn’t figured that much out, then he was going to be in for a rude awakening, because Harry had a reason to fight, something to fight for now, and he couldn’t – wouldn’t – back down; Narcissa had told him to persevere if he was serious, and he would. He knew he would be rejected, at least at first, and knowing that no longer made him feel a sense of inadequacy – not when Mrs Malfoy had indicated that she was certain that Draco cared deeply for him. 

By the time Andromeda arrived to take Teddy home, Harry had come up with his first plan of attack, and had decided that he would make his opening move that evening. 

Through dinner, Harry was responsive for a change, thoroughly enjoying more stories about his parents and their friends from Hogwarts – even tales about Mr and Mrs Weasley before they had got together. Draco’s mother really was quite charming, and even though he felt a brief twinge of longing that his Healer join them, it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he easily enjoyed his meal, taking his time to avoid tiring himself too quickly. He had a better use in mind for his limited energy. 

Long after dinner, Harry waited patiently for Draco to arrive for his nightly bathing. When the door opened and Draco strode into the room, he smiled in greeting. He quickly undressed with assistance and as he lay in the water, feeling those hands all over his body, he didn’t hold back his sounds of appreciation. Harry had suspected that Draco would simply ignore his vocal enjoyment, and he was right; his Healer didn’t acknowledge it at all, and that was fine with him. The man wasn’t immune to him, and he knew that, so he just bided his time, settling himself in for a long haul with an implacable patience he’d had to learn, since it didn’t come naturally to him. 

Draco got him out of the bath, and took him to the bed for his stretches. He had felt the other man’s arousal again, and felt triumphant for his efforts so far, and when they neared the end of the routine, Harry knew it was time to begin his attack in earnest; he had the element of surprise, and he was going to take full advantage of that, so as Draco helped him get settled, he asked him for assistance with his pillows. The rejection he knew was coming didn’t matter to him – not like it had at New Year’s Eve – so he reached out, taking hold of Draco’s arm, pulling the other man’s body to his. His chest was rising and falling quickly as he felt the warmth of another body pressed against him, a solid weight that made him feel more alive than he had in months. Before any struggle could ensue, he craned his neck and pressed his lips against Draco’s, feeling them tighten to prevent him from going any further, but that didn’t stop him. He pushed his tongue along the strained lips, delighting in the taste and feel of them against his, then worked his teeth around Draco’s bottom lip, teasing the soft skin before releasing and attempting to snog him properly. His grip was beginning to falter, though, and Draco easily pulled himself free.

“That is completely inappropriate,” Draco said flatly, blinking quickly, but Harry didn’t care. He had got some sort of reaction, and he could tell the other man was flustered. The last thing he heard was the door closing slightly harder than usual, and he settled comfortably, knowing that that battle was just the beginning.

**~*~*~*~**

In the morning, Draco appeared the same as always. There were no visible signs of him being shaken at all by the kiss the previous evening, much like there had been no discernable reaction to the one on New Year’s Eve. He wasn’t deterred, though. The reactions he had got so far were enough to keep him going, and unless he got a flat rejection that didn’t include words like ‘patient’ and ‘inappropriate’, he wouldn’t stop. He had a feeling that if he gave up, he would lose any ground he’d gained, and that wasn’t an option as far as he was concerned, so when Draco began Harry’s stretches that morning after he had relieved his bladder and brushed his teeth, he launched his second line of attack. 

There genuinely was a lot that Harry wanted to know about Draco, but at present, he really was single-minded in his pursuit; and until he learned the best ways to ask for the information he wanted, he’d just have to keep things simple, use the Auror interrogation techniques since anything more complex than a yes or no question on anything other than the most innocuous topics tended to lead to headaches and general frustration that he really didn’t have the energy to spare for. Keeping simple in mind, he began his questioning, intentionally avoiding all contact that wasn’t required for his morning physio. 

“Thanks for contacting Andromeda. It was really good to see Teddy yesterday.”

Draco seemed surprised and gratified. “Don’t mention it.”

“I really do appreciate it,” he said, smiling. “And Teddy seemed to have fun with Viola.”

Draco’s reply was a soft ‘hmm’ that made Harry look at him, watching the other man for a moment before he regained his composure. He was finding it too easy to become distracted by the sensations moving through his limbs, and with another smile, he said, “Merlin, do you know how good that feels?”

A sardonic smile tugged Draco’s lips up, and he replied, “Yes. I spent quite a lot of time learning how to make it feel this good.” 

A sigh of relaxation spilled from Harry’s lips and he lay back as Draco moved to his lower body to work. “You know, when this is all over, I’d be willing to pay for a rub-down now that I know, too,” he joked. There was no reply, but he hadn’t expected one. He was just trying to keep things light and relax Draco into engaging with him. “Do you really think you’re close to finding an answer to all of this?” 

“Yes; I know what the underlying curse was, and I’ve already eliminated a number of potential mutation catalysts. There are no more than fifteen or twenty left to try.” 

“I, erm, believe that you will, you know. You’ve made a lot of progress so far.” Harry stopped for a moment, a gasp of pleasure caught in his chest. He exhaled slowly, trying to continue breathing properly. “We’ve come a long way since this all started, haven’t we?”

“That, we have,” he said wryly.

“I really do care about you, Draco,” Harry said, his face hot. 

“Don’t start that again, Potter. It’d be wrong,” was the only reply, his tone laced with disappointment, which Harry could only infer arose from Harry’s change in direction of the conversation after such a promisingly innocuous start. 

“I know it's wrong,” Harry said, sighing. He shoved his fingers through his hair, his nerves on end. He hoped if he could show Draco he understood that maybe it would make things easier, that maybe if he showed he could be reasonable it would help rather than hinder any progress between them personally. “I know that it could cost you everything. I'll do what I have to do to keep that from happening. I don't care if I have to lie to everyone.”

Much to Harry’s irritation, Draco continued what he was doing without giving any indication of even having heard a word Harry had said, and Harry sighed again. 

“You're a terrible liar,” Draco remarked then – with a slow blink, which surprised Harry since, at least as far as he could tell, there had been no sexual sub-text. 

“I can do it. I'd do whatever it takes,” Harry replied earnestly.

"You could look Hermione Granger in the eye and deliberately tell her an untruth?" Draco looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “Perhaps you could. The odds of her actually believing you, though...” He gave a short laugh.

“I will do whatever I have to do,” Harry reiterated.

“Truthfully, Potter, if I _were_ to ignore ethics and basic morality - and this is by no means any suggestion that I'm even contemplating it - what would you expect to happen?” Draco asked dispassionately. 

“Us to be together.” Harry flushed again.

“And that's it, is it? Happy ever after?” Draco shook his head slightly. “You always did occupy an ivory tower.”

“What do you want me to say? I want to try. If things don't work... then they don't work. But how do you know if you _won't_ try?”

“How many relationships have you been in?” Draco asked with a touch - just the faintest hint, but it was enough to tell Harry that the Healer wasn’t quite as in control of his cool as he seemed to want to appear - of asperity.

“One.” Harry frowned. 

Draco rolled his eyes and asked, “And how many of those have been with a male of my background?” 

“None.” Harry was quite confused by the turn of the conversation; he had lost control of it.

“Yes, quite.” Draco sniffed as if no more needed to be said to that.

Harry shook his head. “Why does any of that matter? How many relationships with males of _your background_ have you been in?”

“How many relationships have I been in with males of my background?” There was a touch of mordant amusement to his words. “Oh, no more than nine or ten. You have no idea what you're trying to get yourself into. And you're talking about something that can do the parties concerned lasting damage,” Draco said. 

“Lasting damage. You think if things didn't work that I'd - what? Try to bring charges against you?” 

“Frankly, I have no idea what you'd do if it didn't work out. I don’t particularly want to speculate, either, given your propensity to slice me open at times of high emotion.” 

Harry knew exactly what Draco was talking about – Draco hadn’t been entirely innocent in that affair, admittedly, but the statement made him feel like he’d been punched in the stomach. He had to exhale just to regain some equilibrium before he could reply. “I didn't mean to do that,” he said softly. “And I may be a lot of things, but I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't ruin your life because things didn't work. I'm not Benedict or the other nine men you've been with.”

Draco shook his head, apparently not deeming that assurance worthy of a response. “Being in a sexual relationship with another man is _nothing_ like being in a sexual relationship with a woman.”

“I never assumed it was.” Harry frowned. “And I haven't done anything to Ginny...” Harry added, trying to drag the conversation back on topic, with a sinking feeling that he wasn’t going to succeed, if Draco had got the bit between his teeth.

Draco’s expression suggested that he considered it at least to some extent possible that Harry hadn’t done anything to Ginny because he hadn’t been physically able to at first, and further that he had had time to cool down since then, but even then, Harry knew he probably wouldn’t have done anything. Throwing her out of the house had been enough at the time, and while he was aware that he hadn’t always thought things through properly, he wanted to think them through now; he wanted to assess the consequences, because he knew he could protect Draco from them.

And then, as if the clouds hiding illumination had just parted, enlightenment struck Harry: Draco didn’t think Harry was capable of thinking before he acted. "You don't trust me," Harry said, looking down. If Harry didn’t know any better, he would have thought he’d just swallowed an Acid Pop whole, the way his insides felt like they were melting away. The unfortunate truth of their circumstances, and they were theirs, not solely Harry’s any more, was that Draco had repeatedly proven how much he had changed and that he had earned Harry’s trust, but to know that he hadn’t been able to prove his own change, really, and show he was capable of controlling his temper, and not gaining Draco’s trust in return, hurt him.

Draco appeared to consider Harry’s words before he replied. “I trust you not to act with malice aforethought.” 

“I have changed since school.” Harry continued to look down, a frown on his face.

“As have we all. Apart, possibly, from Weasley,” he said dryly.

“Draco,” Harry said, his voice low, “I need you to trust me.”

Harry was probably the most uncomfortable he had been with having a discussion with Draco so far. He noted the expression of mild surprise that preceded Draco’s reply.

“I should have thought it was more important for you to trust me, at this point.” 

“I do. Implicitly.”

“And I will undertake not to betray that trust.” 

“Giving me something I'm asking for, something that I think you want too, _isn't_ betraying that trust.”

Draco gave Harry an ironic look. “The debate appears to have come full-circle.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighed. “I think you’re wrong about one thing, though. You reckon that when this is all over and I’m okay again, you’ll be the last person I want around. I think you’re wrong,” he said. “You—” Harry thought for a moment and changed his tack slightly, “—were being honest when you said you’re attracted to me, weren’t you?” Draco nodded slowly, almost warily, in reply, and Harry continued. “Then, when this _is_ all over, and I’m well again, if I _do_ decide you’re not the last person I want around, would you give it a go?”

“Do you really think it’s that easy?” Draco inquired, continuing his work.

“You’re Draco Malfoy. Of course it’s not that easy,” he replied. “I want to try, though.”

Draco shook his head in a movement that was barely more than a twitch, with a quirk around the corners of his eyes and mouth that told Harry he had missed the point. “You say ‘I want to try’ and you think everything falls into place.” Draco seemed almost to be talking to himself. “You’re not fifteen any more, Potter.”

And then it occurred to him that Draco’s statement meant more or less that it took a lot more work than simply declaring feelings and moving directly to happy-ever-after; it would take effort on Harry’s part to prove that he was worthy as a partner. Ginny and Cho had both just taken control of the relationships he’d shared with them, and Harry didn’t want that with Draco any more than Draco appeared prepared to accept it from him. He wanted a partnership, equality, a relationship in which the sum of fame and fortune did not define how eligible he was to the other person and how compatible they were with one another.

“I know I’m not fifteen any more." Harry said. “I know relationships take work; I know being with you would take work, but that doesn't matter. I respect you a lot, and I, erm, like you a lot.” Harry flushed brilliantly as he said the words, but he didn’t let his embarrassment deter him from continuing with what he had to say. Draco appeared surprised by his words, maybe even a little gratified. “I think I might... love you...” Harry inhaled, and hurried on before Draco could say something withering or change the subject. “I don’t expect you to be like me and say how you feel about things; I sort of like that I have to figure it out. Means more to me, you know? And I know I’m not like the other blokes you’ve been with, but I keep hoping you’ll want to give it a go, when this is all over.”

Harry’s heart was pounding wildly in his chest, and Draco looked at him gravely for a long moment before speaking. “If you are still of the same mind when this is over,” he said, words slotting into place slowly and deliberately, with a heavy weight of consideration behind them, “and you are back in your own home, on your own recognisances, and settled back into your life, then I'll… I won't refuse to see what would happen.”

A brilliant smile spread across Harry’s face, and he settled against the bed comfortably, his heart feeling like it might float out of his chest. Draco helped Harry out of bed and into his chair when he had finished, leaving him alone to his thoughts. He joined Narcissa for breakfast as usual, and returned to his sitting room, taking up a book, only he was too distracted to read. He had been almost giddy since Draco had said he’d be willing to see what would happen at the end of everything, and that led him to things he hadn’t considered yet, which strengthened his resolve that he should continue as he was. There wouldn’t be much of a difference between that moment and later: they already lived together, they’d shared the same space, the same meals, for so long, that he realised the only difference would be acceptance of his advances rather than a statement of how wrong it was – so he didn’t see the point in waiting. How could it be any less wrong after the fact than during? Even if Draco waited, the chances of allegations of misconduct being levelled against him by any number of people were still high, especially those who would see him fail and thrust him from society as a pariah. It wouldn’t matter in the end if they waited or not, Harry realised.

**~*~*~*~**

Later that evening, Harry waited for Draco so he could bathe, and he, with the speed of daylight fading, began to remove his shirt, taking his time to push each button through the small holes. Usually by the time the door opened, alerting Harry that he was no longer alone, he had got his shirt off, and it lessened Draco’s work just a little in his eyes. 

As Draco moved him from bed to bath, Harry held on just a little bit longer than he needed to, and felt a brief shrug, his hand losing its grip on the soft fabric of the Healer's polo shirt. He pulled away, and Harry smiled slightly, eying Draco as he worked. As with most evenings in the bath, it didn’t take long before Harry was fully aroused from Draco’s attentions. He lay still, enjoying it, and feeling bold, he leaned forward impulsively and placed a kiss on the pale cheek, bizarrely excited to feel coarse, near-invisible stubble against his lips. 

“Potter!” Draco warned, and Harry shrugged slightly as he pulled away, completely unrepentant for giving his affection, his new understanding of the situation making his actions easier to square with his conscience; his Healer meant too much to him just to give up.

The bathroom felt hotter than usual, and then Harry realised it was his body that felt like it was burning from the inside, each slow, gentle touch of the flannel against his skin with Draco’s firm hands behind it searing him with each pass. He exhaled with abandon, closing his eyes for a moment as he trailed his fingertips across the skin Draco had just touched. He wasn’t used to wanting to be that open with another person, and the only way he could do it was to grab his nerve with both hands and plunge in headfirst. The washing didn’t stop, but he felt the movements slow and opened his eyes, gaze fixed to grey eyes just as a slow blink hid them from view. Harry’s breathing became faster as his hand moved lower, another plea for more than a simple bath could provide filling the small room as he reached his cock, groaning again as he gripped himself with a slow stroke. Draco’s face flushed slightly, and his pupils dilated, another slow blink covering pale irises. Harry’s stomach rose and fell quickly, his hand shaking slightly as he released the hold on his cock. 

“You like touching me like this, don’t you?” Knowing he wouldn’t get an answer, he chuckled slightly and added, “It’s okay, you don’t have to answer.” Harry gasped as the cloth moved across his neck and shoulders. He bit his lower lip and said in a husky voice, looking directly at Draco, “I like you touching me.”

Pale lips thinned in response, and Harry elected to refrain from saying anything, offering instead wordless appreciation as sensation forced the breath from his lungs. He held Draco close, an anchor against his weakness, as he was lifted from the water. He unashamedly leaned into Draco as he was supported, the towel running over his back. Erections pressed tight and unacknowledged between them as the water was wiped from his body. Silently, Draco moved him to the toilet to finish towelling him off. After his bath, when he had been settled in bed at the end of his stretches, Harry tried to remember if he had always been so responsive to people’s touches. And he hadn’t, he realised. Part of him wondered if that was due to his debility or if it was just Draco, being the only person he’d ever chosen to surrender all of his body to, even if it wasn’t sexual, and the other part of him wondered if his reactions were from the newness of it all – the desire, the care that Draco gave. Eventually the mournful strains of Draco’s playing lulled Harry to sleep, and he relaxed into his dreams.

_Harry stood in an empty room that was unfamiliar, but felt like somewhere he’d been before. Soft light filled the room, and Harry looked around, turning and then smiling at Draco’s familiar face behind him, smiling at him. He closed the distance between them, reaching out a steady hand. His fingers curled around the nape of Draco’s neck and he pulled him in for a kiss, his lips brushing against oddly cool and hard lips. His stomach sank and his knees felt weak when he pulled away and a sneer replaced the smile, his mouth parting to release a high, cold laugh. The sound felt like a sickness crawling over his skin as he took a step backward and watched as Draco’s face become like a statue, dark veins covering the pale surface. The marble-looking Draco began to crack and shatter, each piece disappearing, leaving him standing still, his body shaking as he cried out for Draco to return. Each answer was a disdainful taunt of ‘Potter’, eventually merging into a chorus of different tones: one urgent and insistent, the other dripping scorn. A soft weight landed on his shoulder, and he tried to jerk away, unsure what was happening. He ran in the direction the urgent voice calling to him was coming from, but the floor began to melt away, and he fell, his arms flailing until everything faded to black, a strangled cry ripped from his throat._

Harry blinked once, feeling the uncomfortable slickness of sweat on his lower back. There was a pleasant weight on his shoulder, and he reached out, unsure if he was still awake or asleep. He felt the tension in the arm beneath his fingers and realised it was solid, firm, and then he heard the last thing he’d expected to hear.

“Harry.” The tone was softer than usual, and his racing pulse increased at the sound of his name from Draco’s mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the other man say his name, and it was oddly soothing at that moment. He turned blurry eyes toward the shadow above him, and maintained the contact with the warm skin against his. 

He cleared his throat and asked, “Am I _that_ loud?”

“You are when you don't want someone to do something.” Draco pulled his hand free of Harry’s hold, leaving shaking fingertips tingling with sensation as Harry rested his hand against his own chest. “Go back to sleep. I won't let them hurt you,” Draco said dryly as he sat in the chair at the end of the bed.

“You hurt me this time,” Harry said sleepily, squinting at his Healer. The pale light from the window was enough that he could see the flare of Draco’s nostrils and the quick blinks as his head tilted slightly to the side. 

“I will do you no harm, Potter. I promise you. Now, go back to sleep.”

Harry tried to settle comfortably and was tempted to ask for a different shirt, but he didn’t; instead, he said, “You don’t have to stay.” Guilt over Draco’s sporadic use of the chair for his sleeping arrangements began to tug at him. “It was just a nightmare.” 

“Mmm. Sleep.”

There really was nothing more Harry could say, even if he felt terrible for interrupting Draco’s sleep once again. Bowing to his body's exhaustion, though, he closed his eyes, and eventually drifted off once again.

**~*~*~*~**

Harry woke slowly the following morning, feeling more tired than usual. The sunlight pouring through the windows seemed too bright, and his skin felt clammy. He reached for his glasses, slid them on his face, and looked around the room. Draco was still sleeping in the chair at the end of the bed, and he looked how Harry felt. The bruise was still prominent against Draco’s complexion, but the scrapes seemed to be healing relatively quickly, at least.

With some effort, Harry was able to pull the blankets back and reach for the bottle on his bedside table. The noise of his typically clumsy movements woke his Healer as he replaced the bottle and started struggling with his shirt; he felt sticky and wanted another bath.

Listlessly he lay in bed, waiting for Draco to return. Taking off his shirt had left him in a wet spot that made a shiver of cold travel down his spine, but at least he wasn’t completely encased by the damp material any more. The bathroom door opened, but Harry was too tired to turn his head to look at Draco. He despised the days when he felt that weak. It made it harder to maintain even an illusion of independence, and he appreciated the precious little of that he had left. 

“Would you like another bath?” Draco asked.

“Please,” Harry replied quietly. 

Harry heard the taps turn and water rushing into the bathtub. Draco returned and removed the damp pyjama bottoms, making him twitch slightly as the cool air hit his sweaty skin. He felt much better without the fabric clinging to him, and he wrapped his arms around Draco as he was lifted from bed, closing his eyes and resting his face against the warm skin of his Healer’s neck, his thumb idly playing with the soft fabric of Draco’s own pyjamas. He sighed muzzily, inhaling Draco’s scent, letting the familiarity of it relax him. 

Water covered his legs as Draco lowered him, and he laid his head against the tub after he had been eased back against edge, closing his eyes. He heard the rustle of fabric before he felt the easy strokes of soap-leaden flannel moving across his skin, and Harry turned to face his Healer slowly, noticing his bare torso immediately. He had been, Harry remembered, wearing long sleeves, which were hardly practical when bathing someone, not unless he wanted them to be soaked completely. He saw the scars again, felt the rush of confusing guilt that he had hurt Draco enough to do that much damage and a fierce, possessive pride at having left a permanent mark on the man he wanted. His mind continued to conjure the strangest feelings for Draco, and the one that scared him the most was the delight he felt from having left a mark, almost a claim, on Draco’s skin.

“How are you feeling?” Draco asked, interrupting Harry’s strange train of thought. 

“Tired. Really tired,” Harry said, his words slurring slightly. The movement of the flannel over Harry’s skin had a calming effect, and he sighed softly as he nodded off to sleep. And when he woke again, he felt like the world was being ripped out from underneath him as he rose into the air, his arms seeking whatever grip he could maintain around Draco’s bare shoulders. Once he realised he was safe, and that he wasn’t going to be dropped, he relaxed, and tried to stay awake as Draco dried him off; he enjoyed the feeling of not having any physical barriers between them for once, and groaned softly when he realised he was still painfully hard, wishing, that for once, he could _not_ react to every minor touch or bath. Draco didn’t question what was wrong, and Harry was glad; he really didn’t want to have to explain that every brush of skin on skin made him hornier than an adolescent.

Time seemed to move much faster than he was aware of, because one moment he had been sitting, and the next he was standing against Draco’s tall body, his arms around his neck, his nose pressed against the warm skin. He inhaled and delighted in the scent that seemed like it crawled down his throat and settled in his stomach. “You smell good,” Harry said softly, running his nose against the pale skin, inhaling and letting his lips brush against the near-invisible stubble. Draco froze for a moment, and Harry’s lips parted slightly, his breath ghosting across the flesh like a whisper. “Really good,” he said, nuzzling against the light pulse and then kissing him gently once, then twice, before Draco snapped, his expression startled and affronted as he steadied Harry, but held him at arm’s length.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re playing at?”

“Nothing,” Harry said with a smile.

Draco scowled. “Do not sniff me or kiss my neck. It’s inappropriate.” He muttered something else that Harry didn’t catch and added sharply, “And I can’t believe I have to tell you that.”

From what Harry could tell, Draco’s lifting Harry to carry him to the other room was truly against his better judgement, but he was too tired to care. Not having the energy to continue with his affections, Harry let it rest and dozed as he went through his stretches. Draco was silent the whole time, and Harry didn’t force any conversation.

He knew he had to eat something, so once Draco had helped him dress, he joined Narcissa and Draco for breakfast, trying to eat as much as his tired body would allow. The incontinence, the lacking the ability to walk, those were things he could handle, but being so utterly helpless and dependent on Draco for his physical needs was beginning to make him feel lost, as though the only difference between him and a puppet was his ability to think and feel. He paused over five times, each break lasting longer than the one before. He finally gave up on eating what was on his plate and asked Draco to put him back in bed so he could sleep longer. That Draco didn’t argue or insist he stay up was telling, and as he was carried to the bed, Harry nuzzled close to Draco’s ear, whispering “Thank you,” then placed a soft kiss against the skin his words had just touched, expressing more than he could articulate. He felt Draco stiffen, and heard one of his newest replies to inappropriate behaviour before he sank into the freshly-made bed.

Harry was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and his dreams were blessedly simple or too vague to remember. He woke to the sound of the bedroom door opening, and he shifted slightly so he could see whoever had entered the room. Draco was moving his chair closer to the bed, and Harry reached for his glasses, putting them on, waiting for Draco to lift him from bed. He needed the toilet before eating, so his Healer assisted him with getting settled and left him in privacy, for which he was thankful. By the time he had moved his bowels and was sitting in his chair again, he was distinctly uncomfortable, and wished like hell he could avoid sitting at all for the next few hours.

Narcissa was already seated, waiting for Harry to arrive. Once Draco had got Harry settled, he left the two of them in peace to enjoy their meal. Harry was still tired, but not nearly as much as he’d been that morning. It still took him a while to each his lunch, but he eventually managed, and while he wasn’t as engaged as he’d been on other occasions, he still listened when she spoke and replied when it was required. She had, on occasion, taken to reading to Harry after lunch, or she would sit with him while he napped, giving him someone nearby should he need Draco. As they were finishing their meal, she remarked, “Once again, my son declines to grace us with his presence. One is almost tempted to wonder what you have done to him this time, Mr Potter.” Harry offered a faint smile, which she returned, and they moved to the sitting room. He shifted a few times, trying to find a comfortable position, to no avail. Having to suffer further the indignity of a sore arse when he spent most of his time seated, stung.

Narcissa’s voice, Harry decided, was quite nice to listen to; it was easy to follow the cadence in which she read, and he found himself comforted by the easy rhythm and timbre, so much so that his chin eventually hit his chest as he nodded off to sleep again, his mind and body weary. In his dreams, Harry was able to walk again, and even if he couldn’t make out what was going on around him, he felt at peace, if only for a little while. The same disconcerting feeling of falling overtook him, and he tensed in the secure hold that suspended his body.

“Draco?” he queried softly.

“Yes, Potter. Just sleep.”

“Mm, love you,” he mumbled, laying his head against Draco’s shoulder. He had said the words without thought, and he felt the tension as his Healer’s body tautened under him. He felt the softness of the bed, smelt the fresh sheets, and sighed contentedly as the blankets were moved over his chest. “Thank you,” he said softly, feeling his glasses being removed from his face. 

When Harry woke, it was still daylight, but he could tell it was getting later in the evening. He dined with Narcissa, more alert than he had been at lunch, and after Harry had used the toilet again, further irritating his sore arse, he sat with Narcissa, listening to her read. The evening grew on, and Draco returned from whatever he had been working on and asked Harry if he was ready for his bath. Since Harry had nothing better to do, he hoped the warm water might ease some of the soreness he had been feeling all day, and he allowed Draco to take control of undressing him.

Settled in the warm bath, Harry laid his head back and lifted his arm slightly, running the backs of his fingers along Draco’s face. His Healer twitched away from the touch as usual, and said, “We've been through this, Potter.” His tone was weary. 

“I wish you’d stop holding back,” Harry replied. “It’s not going to hurt anything.”

“I wish lots of things.”

“Do you wish things were different?”

“Frequently.”

“Between us,” Harry clarified.

Draco’s head dipped for a moment. “What does it matter? Things _aren’t_ different.”

“It matters to me,” Harry said, looking into the pale eyes. Leaning forward, he kissed Draco at the corner of his mouth. The distance between them grew as Draco moved away, and continued to wash Harry as though nothing had happened.

“Things aren’t different. You are my patient.”

“I won’t always be your patient.”

“Then things may be different. But for now, they’re not.”

“Who am I going to tell?”

“Anyone.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said, making sure he had Draco’s attention. “I don’t share.”

Draco’s only reply was the faint, brief flicker of a smile, no pause in washing Harry. Unfortunately his body didn’t care that he was bone tired, because as he seemed to during every other bath, he grew aroused. He knew it wasn’t Draco’s fault, but part of him wondered if his Healer had any idea how much he hated the helpless way he was affected by Draco's bathing him, suffering arousal day after day that he had no ability to take care of himself. He wondered why he could even get an erection the way his body felt at that point, and he said, “Are you _trying_ to drive me mad? That feels too good, Draco.”

His eyes met a mildly perplexed expression, and the blond said blankly, “I’m washing your feet.”

“That’s not the point,” Harry said.

“You have possibly the strangest notion of pleasure I have ever encountered.”

“You’ve never had anyone massage your feet?” Harry asked, sure that Draco had.

“Of course I have.”

“You don’t find it enjoyable?”

“Not to the degree you seem to,” Draco replied, and Harry flushed.

“Its… it’s the way you do it,” Harry said. “It’s like the way you look at people… Your focus.” Draco looked at Harry with that slow blink of arousal, and it made his cheeks even redder. “It’s like you really want me to enjoy it. And I do.”

Draco blinked quickly, his eyes shuttering in the way Harry had come to learn meant that he was surprised about something. 

His brows furrowed, and Harry said, “No one’s ever touched me that way before.” 

No reply came, just the methodical attentions to his body, slowly reaching his groin. Harry shifted slightly, winced at the discomfort, and was thankful Draco hadn’t seemed to notice as his glans was cleaned thoroughly. Harry had to bite his lip at the sensation, because even if he was weak, apparently the rest of his body still had other ideas, and it wasn’t easy in the slightest. He groaned appreciatively as the warmth spread through him, and said, “You don’t touch me like Ginny did. She was always so nervous, but you aren’t, are you?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I have a penis, Potter, and I’ve handled several. I’m not afraid of them.” His tired mind felt like Draco was taking forever to clean him, and he groaned again. 

“How can the rest of me not work, but I still have a sex drive?”

“That may be one of the enduring mysteries of the human body.”

Harry muttered in response, and released a sigh. He’d never known that being bathed by another person could feel so good, and it was damned frustrating that even though he felt like he could sleep for the rest of the year, he still wanted Draco to touch him, to make him come, to do whatever he had to do as long as they were together and some of the Merlin-be-damned tension dissipated some. 

“If that's painful, I need you to tell me, Potter. Increased sensitivity could indicate progression of the malady.”

“It feels good,” Harry said, flushing. 

Draco coughed. “Ah.”

“I didn't really plan on fancying you, you know. I'm not trying to make things harder - but you really do drive me mad with the way you touch me.”

“I'm afraid there aren't many alternatives available. Unless you'd be prepared to have Mrs Prout or one of your friends assist you in this capacity?”

“No. They— no.”

“I thought probably not. But there's not much I can do about the way I touch you,” Draco said as he cleaned between Harry’s legs, gentle enough over his sensitive perineum that the cloth didn't chafe, but not quite firm enough to avoid feeling more like a caress than clinical attention. 

“You make it really hard not to—” Harry stopped and breathed out carefully, trying not to act like a rabid adolescent. 

“I'm sorry that it distresses you. If I could avoid it, I would.”

Draco was moving lower, and Harry realised he hadn’t said anything about being sore. He really didn’t want to feel that cloth running across such sensitive skin. “Mmm, Draco?” Embarrassment took over sense, though, and Draco gave him an inquiring look, so he said, “Nothing. Never mind.” He flushed at the thought of telling Draco he was uncomfortable, and even if he had fantasised about feeling those long fingers moving in and out of him, he hadn’t thought about any scenarios like this. 

A frown drew Draco’s lips down, and he glanced at Harry. “Don't tell me you've been letting me bathe you in overheated water for the past couple of weeks.”

“No. It’s nothing.”

That same frown pulled at Draco’s lips, and Harry, assuming that the response was a demand for more information, said, “I—” he inhaled, his face flushing again. “My arse hurts a bit. Just irritated skin. Can you not use the flannel?”

“Oh. Of course. You should have said something before now. There's a sponge, but it'd be no better. And the loofah's out of the question.” Draco frowned again, and Harry stopped to think about what that meant. Realising he’d just spent the better part of the conversation telling his Healer how mad most touches drove him, Harry sighed.

“J-just do whatever. I won't... I won't take it as something it's not. I know this is just... care.” Harry said, knowing what was coming. He watched as the blond’s shoulders set and he poured some of the soap into his hand.

“Okay, I’m going to lift you a little now,” Draco said and situated Harry so that he could reach between his legs and to his arse comfortably. Draco’s gaze remained fixed on the wall as he worked, and Harry struggle with the amalgam of slow, burning pleasure coupled with discomfort. By the time Draco was done, he was breathing erratically, unable to hide the flush on his cheeks.

“Thank you,” Harry mumbled.

“Don’t mention it. Please,” Draco said, his lips quirking in a half smile. 

Harry didn’t understand it, so he ignored it and, trying to keep the conversation going, asked, “Will you take a break and join me and your mother for lunch tomorrow? Or dinner. You never do any more.”

A brief pause followed Harry’s question, and then Draco shrugged. “If you wish. There's nothing I can't leave to see to itself for an hour or so.”

“Good.” Harry smiled. “We’ve spent this long without having an answer.”

“We actually have a route to an answer now, though. I'm not fumbling around in the dark any more.”

“No, I suppose not,” Harry said. The reminder that there was an answer in sight to his malady made him wonder what would happen when he was no longer just a patient and the lives that had been placed on hold continued moving once again. Would Draco return to his former position in Spell Damage, would he move on, lauded as the Healer who saved Harry’s life, finally gaining the acceptance of those who had doubted his abilities? Then Harry wondered what that would mean for him, and whether or not Draco had been merely humouring him when he’d said he’d be willing to give a relationship a go. It scared him more than he wanted to admit that Draco might walk away from it all, having seen him as a stepping stone to bigger things, even after he’d practically displayed himself on an altar of sacrifice to show his Healer how he felt. “Are you going back to St Mungo’s after all this?”

His question was met with a half-laugh as Draco replied. “Do you know, I hadn't actually given it a thought? I suppose so. There aren't that many options.”

“Do you think it'll be different If you go back?"

“What, the hospital?" Draco laughed mirthlessly. "Hardly. Maybe a touch more difficult to get onto the books this time, since I didn't exactly leave with blessing and assurances that I'd be missed, but apart from my superiors, it should be tolerable enough.”

“Is that what you want?”

Draco gave Harry an odd look. “Has Mrs Prout been sneaking you caffeine?”

“No. I'm just curious if you want to go back to that. You you're much cleverer than they seemed to give you credit for. I just can’t see wanting to go back if no one respects your work. If no one trusts you.”

“What would you propose instead? Trust has to be _earned_ , Potter. It isn't handed out like handshakes. Neither is respect. It's a slow process.”

“Maybe so, but what you're doing for me that's… it’s more than they did. You could be a private Healer.”

“Private practice requires a list of patients willing to be treated - and pay handsomely for the privilege. The mistrust and general loathing my name still attracts from the public at large would tend to make them rather thin on the ground.”

“I could help with that,” Harry said, and regretted it as soon as he saw the flare of Draco’s nostrils. He hadn’t meant to hurt him, and he realised it sounded like he was trying to offer pity or charity. 

“I'm sure you're well-intentioned, Potter, but you needn't put yourself out. My reputation will establish itself in due course.”

“I haven't given you anything – money, nothing. Hermione told me about fforde-Fane. I just want to do something for you. I've monopolised six months of your life.”

“Don’t give it another thought,” Draco said, his eyes narrowing and the corners of his lips quirking up.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Harry sat in silence, hoping that he could still draw Draco back into the conversation. He hated when the blond’s eyes seemed to shutter, protecting him, and keeping Harry from getting any closer. In an attempt to salvage what headway he had made, he said, “I really do appreciate everything you’ve done. I’d probably be dead if you hadn't taken over.”

Draco snorted. “There’s no ‘probably’ about it.”

“Why’d you do it?” Harry sighed. “I'm sorry I wasn't very co-operative at the start.”

“That must be a strong contender for the Ministry's 'understatement of the century' award.”

“It was hard. I was scared, and I knew there weren't any second chances this time. For what it's worth, I'm sorry,” Harry said earnestly. He really did appreciate everything Draco had done, and was still dong for him. And it occurred to him that Draco had completely avoided his question, and he found himself once again pondering his Healer’s motives.

Four surprised blinks came and Draco said, “Accepted. Forget about it.”

The water was starting to cool down, and Harry hoped that he hadn’t blown it. Some of his tension was eased away as Draco washed his hair, and finally lifted him from the bath. Instead of wrapping his arms around Draco’s neck like he normally did, Harry gripped him around the waist as the towel slid across his back. He could hear Draco’s heart as his head lay against the other man’s chest, and he smiled.

“I like this,” he said, closing his eyes and running a tired hand along Draco’s back, feeling the muscles as they moved, the ridges that he wanted to touch, know what they felt like against his skin, and then moved lower. He pressed his lips against Draco’s neck as his hand slid along the curve of Draco’s arse, getting barely a touch before he heard, “That’s inappropriate.” He felt the rumble in the solid body against his ear before he was planted on the toilet, once again at arm’s length. Draco finished drying him off and then carried him to bed, preventing him from doing anything other than a few lingering touches that forced physical responses, proving, once again, that Draco wasn’t as unaffected by Harry as he liked to pretend. 

The week had worn him out, and he chanced one more kiss before Draco could get away from him, receiving the now routine response, and smiled slightly as sensation took control of his body and mind. He barely registered when Draco had finished, saying, “Sleep well, Draco,” before he closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

_“Like that,” Harry said, spreading his legs further. His chest was rising and falling steadily as pleasure coursed through his body. He’d never felt anything so all-consuming, and he groaned loudly as long fingers moved in and out of him. “Yes,” he hissed. “Draco.” His arse was slick, the slow glide was just not enough to sate his hunger, and then lips, mouth, and wicked tongue joined the movement, an undertow of intensity that made him grip the bedding tightly, fearful that he might drown in it. He wanted more, wanted to feel that spark that he swore would ignite his entire body into flames if Draco gave it to him again. Begging, he rocked his hips, pushing himself against Draco’s hand harder and harder until he couldn’t think and his body was trembling with each touch, each movement in and around him. His entire body felt like it was moving faster than it ever had before, and just as he felt he might fall apart, there was a moment where everything stopped and he was aware of everything around him: the way his cock felt in the back of Draco’s throat, the way the fingers inside him felt like they were getting bigger, and then the absolute heat that flashed through him as he came, his voice a strained cry as he tried to breathe, tried to get Draco’s fingers deeper and move away at the same time._

Harry woke quickly, a soft moan on his lips as he heard the door close and the movement of fabric, then the chair groaning slightly as Draco took a seat. 

“Go back to sleep,” Draco said.

“I— need the toilet,” Harry said. Feeling the cool fluid in his pyjamas, he added, “And fresh pyjamas.” His face was red as Draco stripped him and helped him to the toilet. He attempted to clean himself off as best as he could without having to ask for help. After gently wiping Harry’s arse, Draco washed his hands and helped him back into bed, dressing him in pyjamas. 

“Now, get some sleep.” His Healer remained at the end of the bed, his eyes closed.

Harry wanted to argue, but he was still tired, so he closed his eyes and allowed the comfort of Draco being close to lull him into an appreciated dreamless sleep. 

In the morning, he woke to Draco still sleeping in the chair, and felt the rush of guilt that had begun to accompany his Healer’s presence at the end of the bed. He stretched, still feeling the tiredness from the previous day, but much more alert than he had been. He relived himself, and Draco woke just as he was replacing the bottle on the bedside table. Harry noted the lack of erection once again as Draco strode to the bathroom and left him alone to ponder that. Every man he knew woke up hard most mornings, and it made no sense to him. That he should focus on such a trivial thing irritated him slightly. He shouldn’t care so much, but it bothered him; he wondered if it was just another example of Draco’s self-control. 

The sound of the door opening ended his thoughts, and Harry looked at the tall man before him, seeing the shadows of fatigue in his face, and felt another pang of guilt. 

“I’m sorry to be so loud,” Harry said. 

Draco shrugged. “I’ve always been a light sleeper,” he replied as though he knew exactly what Harry was apologising for. “And I’ve worked my share of on-call shifts at St Mungo’s.”

“Do you still do the rounds every three hours?”

“When I don’t spend the night here, yes.” He shrugged again. “I prefer to be sure you’re sleeping reasonably well.”

“Are you actually getting any sleep?” Harry asked, genuinely concerned.

Even in the dim light of the bedroom, he could see the mild surprise in Draco’s expression. “Of course I am.”

“Even in that chair?”

Draco laughed and said, “I’m a Healer. I’ve slept in far less comfortable places than that chair.”

Harry eyed his Healer with uncertainty, deciding not to press the issue. 

“How are you feeling today?” Draco asked, completely changing the subject. 

“Better. Still a bit tired, but not so much as I was yesterday.”

Draco nodded and began Harry’s stretches. 

“How are the models coming,” Harry asked, wanting to keep Draco talking; he liked when they were able to have a conversation that didn’t always revolve around how inappropriate Harry’s attraction to Draco was. 

“Some of them are very promising. It’s peculiar, though; none are entirely following this pattern. It doesn't seem to be a standard functioning mutation.”

“What’s the standard?”

“There are several. They're all based around Artium Magicae Eventi Mutare, or the arithmantic variations on the the Dardanid sequence and its derivatives. It’s _possible_ that it could just be a magical interaction, but... it’s difficult to see what apart from a purposive mutation would cause the material of the index curse to warp this far.” He paused for a moment. “I won’t bore you with the details.”

“Oh,” Harry replied, having no idea what his Healer was talking about.

Draco shifted and began to stretch Harry’s hips. He was turned on his side as usual, but it felt different to him, maybe he was just imagining things, and he moved his hand to cover Draco’s, moaning softly as he slid his fingers between pale ones. 

“Potter!”

Harry exhaled slowly, feeling Draco’s hand move, the skin seeming to burn, an outline of his touch left in his wake. He sighed and let Draco remove his pyjamas and help him dress before he picked him up and moved him to his chair. He lowered Harry slowly, until he was seated comfortably, and he offered a smile in response, brushing his fingers along the back of Draco’s hand; he pulled away as always. 

Harry went to breakfast, only pausing a few times as he ate. Draco had apparently decided to take his breakfast in his study, because only Narcissa was at the table. If she noticed Harry’s disappointment, she didn’t mention it, and suggested that they retire to the garden outside Harry’s rooms. When he started to ask if that was safe, she assured him that Draco had taken care of it at Christmas when he’d set the rest of the rooms up. Surprised by that information, Harry spent the morning distracted. It shocked him that Draco had planned that far ahead, that he had made arrangements for what he must have thought was every possible outcome in regard to Harry’s treatment.

They sat in silence for a long time, just the sound of birds or insects interrupting from time to time, and as Harry looked around, he noticed that the peacocks weren't screaming, and hadn't for hours. Which, he realised, probably meant one thing. Curious, he turned to Narcissa and asked, “Where are all the peacocks?”

“They have been… removed from the grounds.”

“Wh—” As soon as Harry began to ask the question, he knew the answer. Draco had been around when he’d been woken by them, and he sighed. “Why did he do that?”

“My son holds you in high regard, Mr Potter,” was her only answer, and hearing it then, he still didn’t understand what it meant, not when Draco was still rebuffing Harry’s affection. He sighed and shook his head.

**~*~*~*~**

Harry was sitting alone after lunch. Narcissa had decided to call on Andromeda and Teddy, and he had hopes of having lunch with Draco, since he’d said he would join them, but Hermione had called, ruining any chance of his Healer staying. He knew it was selfish, but he rarely got any time with Draco apart from bathing and stretches, and it wasn’t enough; he wanted more than those brief interactions, enjoyable as they were. He sighed tiredly and shifted in his chair. He was glad Hermione hadn’t stayed; he hadn’t had the energy to entertain her. She wasn’t like Narcissa; she expected Harry to answer every last comment she made, with more than just a nod or a smile, and answer any questions she put to him, even if he didn’t want to answer them. If someone had suggested to him a year ago that he would find Narcissa Malfoy better company than Hermione Granger, he’d have thought them mad, but now he knew better - it still surprised him, nonetheless. 

The door clicked open and drew Harry’s attention; Draco walked into the room. “Do you need anything?”

Harry’s mental responses ranged from, _Yes, I need you to fuck me,_ to _Yes, I need you to stop acting like you aren’t just as frustrated with this situation as I am, and stop ignoring that I’m in love with you_ , but he settled on, “Um, can you help me up?”

“Bed or sofa?” Draco asked, approaching him. 

“Bed, please,” Harry replied, wrapping his arms tightly around Draco’s solid body. “Thank you,” he said.

Harry’s thumb found the soft skin of Draco’s neck and he caressed it gently, feeling the hairs rise, a texture like fine grains of sand greeting his touch, and the warmth of his body with each tender glide of his finger. 

“Potter, stop that.” 

Harry muttered sarkily, “You wouldn’t let yourself enjoy it even if you could, would you?” as Draco placed him in the bed. 

His Healer breathed with deliberate, measured calm. “I shall be in the study. Mrs Prout will be on hand, should you need anything.” He left the room quickly, and Harry lay silently, and placing his glasses on the bedside table before closing his eyes, forcing his thoughts to quiet; he couldn’t deal with them yet – if he did, he might break, and he was incapable of putting the pieces back together. 

Hours later, the door opening woke Harry, and he sat up slowly, reaching for his glasses and putting them on. Draco helped him from bed, assisted him in the bathroom, and they left for dinner.

It was odd that Narcissa wasn’t already waiting, as she always dined with him, but just as the thought began to form, the door opened, and the regal witch entered the room to explain with suitable courteous apology that she had plans for the evening, but would see them in the morning. Harry smiled, realising what was happening, and allowed the creeping sadness that had gripped him earlier to fall away like autumn leaves from a tree, then watched as Draco took a seat, his grace entrancing Harry. They were mostly silent through the meal, but Harry had come to learn that being with Draco didn’t require aimless babbling or useless words to fill space because of discomfort. The only time Harry ever felt words were needed was when he sought answers that somehow equated to validation or even something to give him hope.

The evening felt like it flew by, a scene in a Pensieve, rather than actual moments occurring, until he found himself stripping his shirt before Draco could arrive for his bath. He exhaled slowly, doing a good job of keeping his mind on neutral topics, and when Draco entered the room, punctual as always, he smiled. The words were there, the fears, the desires, but he ignored them, choosing to enjoy the way he felt when those hands moved across his skin in those oddly intimate moments. When he wasn’t pushing for more, the undercurrent of tension no longer overshadowed the actual pleasure of trusting someone enough to let them have complete control over his body. It was the only thing that kept him from falling into the contemplations that were sure to siphon away his last traces of contentment, so he held tight to Draco as he was lifted and carried to the bath, steaming water rolling over his skin much the way those pale hands did as they washed him with their clinical attentiveness to his comfort. 

A shiver ran through Harry’s body as the cloth and soap ran over his skin, easing the tension and letting him forget things just for a little while. When his cock began to harden, his mind full of memories of his dreams, of wanting to feel Draco unrestrained, he closed his eyes and unconsciously slid his hand down his chest, his fingertips alive with sensation. Those moments were as exciting as they were torturous for Harry. The coil of pleasure started the moment Draco’s fingers brushed against his naked skin, and set him on fire in a way Ginny never had, never could, and he caressed himself slowly, re-learning the sensations those touches created within him. He opened his eyes, watching as Draco tried to ignore him, but the blush and the slow blink occurring at irregular intervals told him all he needed to know. Harry’s teeth left an indentation in his bottom lip as he gasped when Draco’s hands finally made it to his cock. Arching slightly as his foreskin was pulled back and soapy fingers slid over his glans, Harry slid his hand lower and wrapped his fingers around the ones holding him, and looked into his Healer’s eyes.

“Draco,” he said, holding their hands together for as long as his unsteady arm would allow. “Mmm, Draco.”

“Stop it, Potter,” was the reply. “It’s inappropriate.”

Harry let his shaking hand drop away and closed his eyes as a shield against the humiliation of continuing to put himself on the line when even though Draco had acknowledged his reciprocated attraction, he was still untouchable because of circumstances. Knowledge of the reality of the situation didn’t change Harry’s need to be close to someone, to feel another’s touch to remind him he was real, that he wasn’t slipping away – that he deserved affection. 

Defending himself from his thoughts became harder and harder, and slowly doubt began to slither in, leaving a path for the never-quite-eradicated ocean of insecurity and fears to follow behind. He held Draco as tightly as his muscles would allow until he was deposited in the bed like the burden he was. The cloud of emotions was enough to keep him from maintaining an erection, and he sank against the bed, going through the motions, a puppet at the mercy of another person. The day had gone on long enough as far as he was concerned.

He numbly felt the cool fabric of his pyjamas slide against his bath-heated skin, and whispered, “Goodnight, Draco,” as the door closed and something inside him opened, a festering wound draining. It had never occurred to him that what he and Ginny had shared was defective and shallow, but with the depth of the feelings he had developed for Draco, it had been. Ginny never would have been so attentive to him if they had still been together through his illness, and he knew that; she was too self-centred to have given up her comfortable position as the future wife of the wizarding world’s _Saviour_ without bitter complaints. She would have been taken out of the spotlight if she had had to help at all during his debility, and wouldn’t have understood the need not to use magic – as she’d always had it in her life. But then Harry wondered if he would have noticed her at all with Draco there, and remembering what Luna had said about no one else holding his attention the way his Healer always had, he wondered, a brief flicker of doubt for his own feelings, whether it _was_ rooted in residual obsession from the years of misjudging the man. He shook his head. No, what he felt for Draco was real – it was the realest thing he’d felt in years, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. Discovering Ginny’s infidelity had been for the best, really, even if it had left him completely alone while everyone else went on without him.

 _Draco._ The man was so complicated, and Harry was at a loss to work him out. He admired Draco so much, trusted him, but there were so many doubts and fears that it was hard to ignore the ‘what ifs’. His Healer was one of the cleverest people Harry knew, apart from Luna and Hermione, and if he couldn’t discover what was wrong… It was hard, and Harry wanted to believe that everything would be okay, but the increasing weakness, the fatigue, it all made him lose a little more of what optimism he had about the situation. It wasn’t for lack of trust in Draco; it was the situation. He felt as if he were dying by inches, and trying to hold onto an abstract assurance when he needed something tangible was making it harder to fill in the cracks of the dam that was about to burst inside him. And then there was the fear that Draco had simply been humouring him when he’d said he would be willing to give a relationship a go with him after everything was over. He knew Draco had changed since Hogwarts, but he also knew that his Healer was ambitious, that bowing to Harry’s feelings for him could ruin everything Draco had worked hard for in the years following the war. 

The rejections he continued to face, despite not knowing what each day would bring, were just as painful to Harry as he was sure that those from Draco’s colleagues at St Mungo’s had been. Then there was the fear of losing Draco, of losing something he’d thought didn’t exist. He’d been lapping up Draco’s attentions like a parched man who’d found a few drops of water gathered in a hollowed rock in the desert, and as the last taste trickled down his throat, panic that he might never feel it against his tongue again welled in him. He knew Draco was a completely competent Healer, but the gripping tightness in his chest of irrational, irrepressible fear that he would waste away, die, wouldn’t let him go. He wanted to recover, to be able to function on his own again; he’d just started getting used to everything before one mistake had exacerbated his illness. Draco had been able to identify the trigger, but what if he couldn’t find the source of it all? He'd acknowledged that the mutation didn't seem to be behaving normally, after all, and competence wasn't a guarantee of infallibility. It _was_ possible that Draco was wrong. His breathing increased until his lungs were burning from the constant inhales and exhales. In an attempt to still the dizziness that began to wind around him, he closed his eyes, his stomach roiling and his fingers and hands beginning to tingle.

It was as though the walls between him and everything else had finally dropped, stealing the last piece of protection he had that wasn’t coming from Draco, and something inside him broke, a glass shattering, the contents – him – spilling through each fracture until he was spread so that there was nothing left but the faint traces of his existence. He was that broken glass, jagged shards protruding until his insides fell to the floor, an offering of his pain, of his constant struggle with what his life had become. In that bed, he had found comfort, had found safety, only now there was nothing to protect him from the fears, the insecurity, the panic, and growing impotent anger. Each emotion seemed to take its turn tormenting him, the tears burning his cheeks as they fell slowly at first, impeded only by his will to hold them back – fighting against becoming any weaker than he already had. The rush of long-buried feelings began to coalesce, and a gasp leapt from his parched throat, his emotions claiming victory for having won. He shook, valiantly trying to keep himself together for fear that he might actually fall apart, become just a puddle that would eventually dry up and be forgotten by the one person who could really see him, not see through him, or around him. He let go. An anguished cry seemed to rip itself from his chest, his body shaking as he scrubbed at his face; he thought if he could wipe the tears away that they wouldn’t drown him. 

The bed shifted, and he felt someone next to him; he let caring arms wrap around him, wind through him, and strong hands guided him into a blanket of warmth. He could feel the weight of one of those hands on the back of his head, an arm around his waist – and then the smell like green moorland after a summer rain penetrated his mind. 

He gripped and tugged at Draco’s pyjamas, his hands aching with tension as he gave up control, his voice harsh with each cry that rent the silence. There was a pleasant, reassuring pressure of a hand on his head, stroking gently, telling him it was okay, that he would be okay, and somewhere in that fear, all he could do was apologise, for what, he didn’t know, but it came out. Then he managed, through gasps and pleas for something he knew he couldn’t have, to say, “Please don’t leave me.” He clung to the one person who had never treated him any differently than he deserved, his breathing hitched with each word that seemed to race to scramble from his lips. “I love you,” he said, the words rolling over the knot in his throat. And he did. Harry was in love with Draco, and he knew that what he’d had with Ginny had been a pale impersonation of the depth of his feelings toward the man holding him securely against his body. 

Draco was there. Draco was always there – he knew exactly when Harry needed him, and right then, he seemed to hold Harry as tightly as Harry wanted to cling to him, Harry’s throat becoming raw from the nonsense that seemed to flow from his lips along with his sobs. In his chest, his heart seemed to twist when no reply came. “I don’t want to die. I’m scared.” He choked on the words, trying to force them out – if they were out, they couldn’t infect him any more.

“If I push, you’ll leave; if I don’t push, you’ll leave,” Harry tried, and the words got caught in his throat. “Don’t want you to leave,” he cried brokenly, the words disjointed as his weakened fingers dug into the man he loved, trying to keep him as close as he could, for as long as he could. Even in the darkness of the bedroom, he could see Draco’s face; he could feel him, and he pressed his lips against Draco’s face, tasting the salt of his own tears. There was no distance separating them for once, and Harry, seeking the acceptance and reassurance he needed, parted his lips slightly, pressing them against Draco’s. He whispered his gratitude, kisses both tender and desperate becoming his voice when words failed. He tasted the sweetness of their lips, of acceptance, his moving against Draco’s softly, the gentle answer making his heart feel like it was about to burst.

“Hush. Harry. Hush, now. I’m here. I’ll be here for as long as you need me. I promise you that. I won’t leave you while you need me. Hush, now,” was spoken against Harry’s lips.

Hearing Draco’s steady voice drew the venom from his thoughts a little at a time. He was safe, secure. He coughed as he tried to catch his breath, his nose stuffy and his face swollen. His racing thoughts centred on how he had been carried from Diagon Alley, how his friends had been told to leave for distressing him, how he had been tenderly bathed and treated with more respect as a person than he remembered in his entire life. Those thoughts began to ground him a little as he slowly calmed, his chest hitching and abdomen clenching until he was sore and needed just to feel his body against Draco’s, to feel cradled. He looked at Draco through blurred vision, his eyes tracing every contour of the aquiline features. He rested his forehead against Draco’s, their breath mingling in the close space. His lips trembled as he tried to speak, his voice having deserted him. He turned his head, his cheek against Draco’s, slowly caressing, letting the warmth of touching another person spread through him. And as the tide of emotion began to recede, so did his tears. He felt the warmth of Draco’s body and let himself drift into the comfort the embrace provided. When he finally closed his eyes, he was carried into sleep on the current of Draco’s quiet, firm reassurances and the sense of his closeness.

To Be Continued…


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: The End of the War**

Sunlight caressed Harry’s face the following morning, and he woke slowly, his body stiff and aching. The first thing he noticed was that he was alone, and his heart sank slightly, remembering that Draco had been there, had held him as he had finally let go of the things he’d hidden even from himself. He turned his head; the pillow next to him was still slanted awkwardly and he reached out and ran his fingers along the indentation from Draco’s head having rested there next to him. He inhaled the soft scent on the pillowslip, a brief smile tugging at his lips. Draco had stayed with him all night, had kissed him, soothed him, when Harry had needed it most. Trying not to let his elation overrule sense, he quashed any thoughts that might complicate things even more. He was sluggish as he tried to sit up, from the physical strain of having cried so hard, but he felt well enough, which was a nice change. 

He didn’t know what time it was, but it seemed later in the day than usual. He relieved himself and stretched as much as he was able, waiting for Draco. And always knowing – Harry wondered how – when he was awake or ready to get out of bed, Draco entered the room and helped him up. He winced slightly from the soreness in his abdomen and arms, and offered a shy smile as he was taken to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Draco was already dressed, so he must have been awake for a while, and Harry asked, “What time is it?” curious how late Draco had allowed him to sleep.

“Half ten,” he replied.

“Oh, right. Erm,” he tried, unsure what to say. He flushed slightly as Draco lifted him. He gave the strong shoulders as much of a hug as he could muster and said, “Thank you,” with a kiss to punctuate his words as he was placed on the bed again. He knew such a simple phrase wasn’t enough to express what he was really feeling, the gratitude, but it was all he had.

“Potter,” Draco warned, his tone as weary as it had been a few days prior. His Healer’s response almost made him wonder if he was remembering the previous night properly. 

Lying in silence, Harry closed his eyes and found himself slowly falling back into the routine that he hated. He was so tired of his body reacting when there was no relief to be had, when he felt like he had no control over his libido, which seemed to function perfectly well, despite his infirmity. It didn’t even take ten minutes for him to harden under the meticulous attentions, and he groaned half in pleasure, half in frustration. He adjusted himself, since that was about all he could do, and sighed heavily.

“Why do you still do this?” he asked. “It’s pointless. It just makes me painfully hard, without any sort of relief, considering I can’t even wank properly.” It wasn’t Draco’s fault. He knew that, but that didn’t change the situation, and it sure as hell didn’t give him the one thing he felt had been his only luxury before he’d got worse.

“It's maintaining muscle tone and joint flexibility.” Draco squared his shoulders in a movement so slight that Harry wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't spent a couple of months training himself to recognise the tiny tics that seemed to constitute most of the blond's body language and narrowed his eyes at his own hands. “And if you're unable to achieve sexual release and it’s become problematic, you should have told me so earlier.” The discomfort Draco felt oozed from his clipped words, and Harry sighed. “There are… arrangements that can be made.”

“Draco, if I can't hold a quill or my fork-- you know, I can't believe I actually have to point this out to you,” Harry said between frustration and exasperation. 

“Since I haven't made a study of your sexual practices, I fail to see how you can think I should reasonably have extrapolated how much… work you have to do to bring yourself to orgasm. I can contact St Mungo's and request some names.”

“Names for what?” Harry asked, hoping he wasn’t hearing what he thought he was hearing.

Draco ground his teeth before he replied with a faint blush staining his pale cheeks, but his voice perfectly level, “There are specialist therapists for this sort of thing. It’s not exactly sexual surrogacy, but the term is close enough for a layman’s purposes.” 

“Merlin, Malfoy, you’re seriously trying to tell me that _you’d_ find the idea of someone you don’t know messing with your bits remotely appealing?”

“The alternatives are distinctly limited,” he said with his lips thin and his jaw clenched. 

Harry was growing irritated with the direction of the conversation. He found what Draco was saying absurd and couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You really-- for fuck’s sake.” Harry shook his head, trying to calm down. “You’re getting pissed off with me for a situation that’s out of my control?”

The muscle in Draco’s cheek flickered slightly and he replied, “My feelings on the subject are entirely immaterial. I am trying to identify a solution to the problem.”

“The solution would be another Healer.” Harry said, his chest tightening. “But you've already made it clear that that isn't an option, so while you can spend your entire day doing whatever it is you do, forgetting that I’m here until I require assistance, I get to remember everything I _can't_ do and…” Harry bit his lip hard. “You’d bring some... medical whore, basically... You don’t know me at all if you think that’s what I’d want!”

“Forgetting that you’re here?” Draco demanded with unusual heat, apparently sticking on only part of what Harry had said, and misunderstanding his meaning. “Do you have the _slightest_ idea how ridicu—? No, of course you don’t. If I’m not right in front of you, I can’t possibly be concentrating on you. I'm trying to find a _cure_ for what’s wrong with you, Potter! You have solidly occupied my mind for the last six months! I _dream_ about finding the answer for you!” As Harry listened to the words, he knew he would have to clarify himself, and he cursed mentally for his inability to articulate what he was thinking properly. “You may have given up the ghost on this, but I haven't; least of all now, now that I know it's curse-damage. Did you somehow manage to miss the significance of that discovery? The only curse for which there's no counter-curse is the Killing Curse. This is _curable_. It's not a death sentence; it needn't even be a permanent handicap! _Malleus Mentis_ can be completely reversed!” He shook his head. “I'm just trying - Merlin alone knows why - to keep your quality of life as high as it can possibly be while I work out exactly what caused the mutation, so that I can adjust the counter-curse accordingly. Do you understand that, now? I’m spending every minute of every day I'm not here with you trying to make the last connection to get you better!”

“I don't mean you _forget_ I'm here,” Harry said, and Draco stopped in the middle of the stretches, focussing his attention on his patient. “You’ve misunderstood me. Again.” Harry took a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing, “I mean that it's like you choose to ignore the fact that my wanting more isn't just about you being my Healer or about the way you look. And you choose to ignore what I do or say, and refuse to be near me unless I need you to wash me, or dress me, or take me to the loo. It's almost like you think that ignoring it will make it go away, or make me stop feeling what I feel, and that isn't going to happen. At this point, if I had a choice in the matter, I wouldn't have chosen to... love you. I can't help the way I react to you. I've tried to ignore it.” Harry sighed and ran his hands through his hair as he looked at Draco, who appeared pensive and distressed, much to Harry’s confusion.

“I'm not ignoring anything,” he said as he began working on Harry’s legs again. “This... situation... is uncomfortable for both of us.”

Hoping that he’d get an answer, Harry asked, “How is it uncomfortable for you?”

“It distresses you,” Draco replied, his face clearly showing how much he hated admitting that. It only took him a moment, but Harry realised something that he hadn’t seen before: if Draco felt Harry was genuinely distraught about something, he was more likely to give a response to questions, or not attempt to avoid the subject like he did if Harry was defensive or forcing the issue. “And it... I take my work seriously. I take my position as a Healer - not _your_ Healer, but _a Healer - seriously. It’s a trust of the most fundamental kind. To do less than my utmost would be wrong. To take advantage of a patient in my care - _you_ in my care - would be unforgivable. I admit that I am... attracted to you. You've observed for yourself that the physical intimacy that circumstance has forced between us doesn't... I'm not immune to it. But you must see that there's no way it could be anything other than _wrong_ to—”_

_The way the words were coming was like his brain wasn’t giving his mouth and voice permission, and Harry listened intently, hating that Draco seemed so lost, but rejoicing in the fact that he had got _something_ from him. Draco shook his head. “I will not do you harm.” It wasn’t entirely clear whether Draco was making the assurance to himself or to Harry._

_“I'm not asking you not to take it seriously. But…” Harry groaned softly as Draco’s hands moved over a particularly sensitive spot. “Fuck, when you do that...” He reached out and placed his hand on top of Draco’s for a moment before it was pulled away. “I know it's wrong, but it doesn't change any of it. I wish I could. I want to kiss you, touch you, _something…_ This isn't easy. What's hurting me is... not knowing what's going to happen and whether or not you'll ever see how much I—” Harry sighed. “I don't want to be the patient any more.”_

_Draco gave no reply; he just continued with Harry’s stretches and when he was done, he said, “I’ll have Mrs Prout serve your breakfast in here. You need to rest.”_

_Harry’s heart broke at the way Draco hedged away from him, the way he was arranging to avoid having to pick Harry up. He was frustrated to his limits, and all he could do was watch as the door closed and Draco left, leaving the silence behind._

_Long after breakfast, sleep seemed like the best thing; he couldn’t get out of bed anyway, and calling for Draco was completely out of the question. Settling against the pillows, he inhaled the bittersweet scent of comfort and closed his eyes, drifting off._

_He’d slept through lunch, and when Draco finally came to gather him for dinner, a slight pang of hurt accompanied his presence. Harry mumbled his gratitude as Draco left him at the dining table with Narcissa, and he ate slowly, trying to conserve his energy. There was a bottle of wine on the table as usual, and instead of ignoring it as he normally did, he chose to enjoy the fine flavour, drinking more than he should have. There was a pleasant haze that seemed to keep his thoughts at bay as the warmth of mild inebriation spread through him. He bade Narcissa goodnight as he went back to his room and began undressing for his bath. He’d spent the evening listening to Mrs Malfoy’s pleasant reading and enjoying the end of the bottle, and now he was ready to go back to sleep, a lightness he hadn’t felt in ages coursing through him._

_The door opened just as he was removing his shirt, and he laughed slightly as the cuff still buttoned stuck on his wrist. Without a word, Draco untangled him from the shirt and prepared the bath. When he was naked, he realised he was already hard and groaned slightly as he pressed against Draco while his trousers and pants fell to the floor._

_As he waited on the tub to fill, he looked at the spinning floor and laughed. “Hold the floor still, can’t you? Or me.” He looked up, grinning. “I can’t find my feet.”_

_“They’re right there, Potter.”_

_“Oh, come on, Draco!” There was a teasing quality to his tone. “Merlin!” Harry expostulated as he leaned his head back, chuckling slightly._

_“He's not here, fortunately. I hate to think what he'd make of you in this state.”_

_“Ha ha. Smartarse. Have a little fun. Stop being so serious all the time.”_

_“I’m not serious _all_ the time.”_

_“It wouldn’t hurt you to smile, you know.”_

_“You don't know that. I might have sprained my face, for all you know.” Grey eyes rolled in amusement._

_Harry laughed. “You look quite nice when you smile.”_

_“Your opinion is invariably edifying.”_

_“I think so. I think you do, too. You're just trying to be Healer Malfoy. I really am starting to think there's a difference between Draco and Healer Malfoy.” Harry took a moment to ponder that revelation and added, “I like both of them, though, so I don't suppose it matters much.”_

_“That is the first time I’ve ever been accused of having multiple personalities.” Draco shook his head. “I’ve seen house-elves with a better tolerance for alcohol than you. Maybe your bath will sober you up.” By Draco's standards, Harry realised blithely, both tone and bearing were tolerant and teasing, affectionate, even. He grinned again._

_Draco lifted Harry and took him to the bath, lowering him into the water. It felt good, incredibly relaxing to his sore body, and he sighed in pleasure._

_“How was your day?” Harry asked, relaxed enough that for once he didn’t over-think himself into silence._

_The look of surprise on Draco’s face was quite becoming to Harry and he smiled. “Much the same as always. Yours?”_

_“Fine,” he said. “Your mum read to me again. I like listening to her…” Harry trailed off and his train of thought changed at the mention of Narcissa. “That wine she has is nice. Never had any before. What was it?"_

_“Puligny-Montrachet. I'm sure Mrs Prout could tell me the vintage; I forget, offhand. It's usually a reliable vineyard. You certainly seemed to enjoy it."_

_“Mmm. Still am enjoying it, really.” Harry laughed. Draco shook his head slightly and smiled faintly. “Like these baths.”_

_The pleasant smile on Draco’s face faded. “The new bath salts seem to have helped with the skin sensitivity you were complaining about.”_

_“It smells good. Like that stuff Luna bought me for my face - um, aftershave.” Harry moaned softly as Draco washed his inner thigh._

_“Hmm. Yes, it's a pleasant scent.”_

_“Smells like me. Does that mean you like how I smell?” he asked, laughing slightly. Another brief smile tugged at Draco’s lips. “You do, then?” Harry added teasingly._

_“Well, I haven't complained about it, have I?”_

_“You wouldn't, though. I bet you'd just change whatever you didn't like.” Harry was grinning goofily as he said the words, and watched again as Draco’s lips lifted at the corners and he shook his head._

_“You, Potter, are at least one sheet to the wind.”_

_Harry let out a throaty moan as Draco moved over his stomach and hips with the flannel. "A bit. ’M not nearly as drunk as I was at new year." He grinned again. “S’not so bad. You would, though, wouldn't you? Just change something if you didn't like it? A _polite_ way to say it? I can see that. When was the last time you were at least one sheet to the wind?” _

_“I can't recall. Over a year, I think.”_

_“You ignore the questions you don't want to answer.” Harry laughed, tensing when Draco finally reached his cock._

_“I thought the sensitivity issue had resolved itself.” Draco frowned._

_“It's not a _bad_ sort of sensitivity. ’Cept the bit where I can’t get myself off.” Draco’s shoulders set as his movement stopped. Harry was slightly startled by the intent and assessing expression that met his eyes when he turned to face Draco. He appeared to be having an internal debate, and then his gaze shifted, his focus moving to Harry’s knee before he spoke. _

_“Do you want me to take care of that for you?” his Healer asked slowly._

_“W-what?” Harry asked, shocked stone-cold sober by the question. He wasn’t sure if he had just heard properly. The blush that painted Draco’s cheeks was adorable, and Harry looked at him, blinking in surprise, waiting for a response._

_“Would you like me to masturbate you?”_

__Yes!_ Harry’s mind screamed as his mouth fell open and no words would come. All he could do was open and close his jaw a few times, before slowly nodding his agreement, the words dead on his tongue. _

_Fists curled in on themselves as Draco took Harry’s cock in hand. He thought he’d die the moment the movement began, a torturous line towing his insides. He gasped as the pleasure of Draco’s firm hand spread through him. It was, he thought, one of the most intense sexual experiences he’d ever had in his life, and it was the way Draco’s hand twisted and gripped him, drawing the pleasure along his cock, easing the need that had been growing within him for months. He let out another gasp, desire burning through him with each long stroke until he couldn’t take it any more; it was too much. Draco’s hand on him, the quick jerks and long, slow twists had him completely incoherent. His breath hitched as the need for release overrode reality and his back bowed, a groan of abandon filling the bathroom as he came._

_Harry couldn’t speak. He lay silent, his chest rising and falling quickly as Draco finished cleaning him, and got him out of the bath. Relaxing had never been so easy, and even though he still grew slightly aroused through the stretches, it wasn’t enough to demand any more attention, and he sighed contentedly as his stretches were completed. His pyjamas were eased over his hips and he settled on top of the pillow Draco had used the previous night. As the blankets were pulled over him, Harry looked at his Healer. He felt ungrateful: Draco had given him a hand job, and he wanted more – wanted the intimacy of a simple kiss, and before the other man could flee for the evening, he asked, “Will you kiss me?”_

_The expression on Draco’s face was clear to Harry: _no, I will not kiss you_. Harry looked at Draco, his face pleading – a look that said ‘you have me in the palm of your hand; please don’t close your fingers’. “Please,” he requested, his tone sober._

_Visibly torn, almost like a skittish animal, Draco looked at Harry a moment longer, an amalgam of thoughts and feelings that weren’t easy to decipher, flittering across his face over an undercurrent of something oddly grim and self-mocking, until they resolved into the sort of look that he thought he must have worn himself the night he'd walked to his death in the Forbidden Forest. Even that was only momentary, though: the usual mantle of impervious composure settled itself quickly back in place._

_“Don’t expect this to become a habit, Potter. You’re still my patient.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips lightly against Harry’s, pulling away before Harry could register what had happened. The door closed, and he smiled, closing his eyes and falling to sleep._

__

**~*~*~*~**

Morning arrived quickly, and Harry woke to an empty room. He had a hard time relieving himself due to his erection, but he managed, and just as he replaced the bottle on the bedside table, Draco entered the room. He completed the rest of his routine and was carried back to bed, the urge to kiss his Healer stronger than before. He was incredibly turned on through his stretches, his body too eager to feel Draco’s hands on him again.

The routine ended quickly, and Draco moved to the side of the bed to lift Harry so he could go to breakfast.

“Will you kiss me?” Harry asked as Draco began to pick him up.

The arms holding him released him, and he couldn’t maintain his grip. He sank against the bed and looked at Draco, whose reply was, “No.”

Confused, Harry looked at his Healer. “You'll give me a hand job but not a kiss?” he asked in disbelief. “I don't understand. Why would you—? It's confusing.”

Draco’s shoulders squared in the manner Harry was coming to learn meant that he was uncomfortable with something. A serious look, almost pleading, one that Harry wasn’t as familiar with, made him stop and wait for an explanation. 

“I... shouldn't have kissed you last night. It was... entirely the wrong message to give you. You have every right to be angry. This is... This is different. You can't do it yourself, and you don't want a stranger.”

“I wouldn't want anyone else at all. But I— you offered and I just thought—” Harry sighed, looking down. He didn’t know what to say, other than apologise for misunderstanding. Knowing that Draco wouldn’t manipulate or confuse him intentionally, he tried not to let his instinctual notions of what was fair cloud his reasoning; Draco was, after all, being honest, and even if Harry couldn’t understand the complexities of the other's thought-processes and ethical reasoning, there had to be a reason that Draco was adamant that a hand job for his patient wasn’t in the same bracket as giving him a kiss. Doing the only thing he could do that wouldn't immediately drive Draco away and ruin whatever progress he had made, Harry looked up and said, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken it for something else.” 

“Once you're well again—”

“Yeah, you've said that,” Harry interrupted. “I'm sorry I misunderstood. I'll see you tonight.” He smiled sadly.

Draco took a measured breath and asked, “Would you like me to take care of that?”

Harry was torn. He had enjoyed the hand job the previous night immensely, but he wanted more than that; his feelings weren’t just about sex or getting off – he wanted a genuine intimacy of a kiss that wasn’t restrained, wanted to be closer to Draco. Having a clear understanding that Draco felt getting him off and kissing him were two different things, even if the reasoning behind the distinction eluded him completely, Harry replied the only way he could.

“Like you said, I can't. Better than nothing, I suppose,” his tone joking.

“Just a moment,” Draco said and left for the bathroom. The taps on the bathtub squeaked as they turned, and Harry waited patiently. 

Draco returned, stripping his pyjamas and putting him in the water. Harry was nervous; he had wanted this, wanted _something_ , from Draco, and now that he was getting it, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was tense the entire bath, and at the end, his whole world crashed around him as Draco once again pulled the pleasure from him so easily his face coloured and he stammered his thanks. 

Once dried, Draco re-dressed him in fresh pair of pyjamas after Harry had requested that his breakfast be served in the bedroom. It took more of his energy than he had expected to have an orgasm after not having any sort of sexual contact for months, and he was tired. He ate slowly and settled in bed, going to sleep quickly. 

There was someone in bed with Harry when he woke up. He could feel the difference in the mattress and he turned his head to his left, a pale head of hair swimming into his blurred vision. He exhaled in relief, feeling the slight knot that had tied itself in his chest unravel, and said, “You know that startles me.” 

Luna smiled that dreamy smile of hers. “You were dreaming about Draco.”

Harry’s cheeks coloured brilliantly. “Why do you watch me sleep?”

“You’re so peaceful,” she said, still smiling. “And beautiful. You and Draco will look good together.” 

Harry muttered something about that being likely and sat up, stretching slightly, then settling comfortably. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Knackered. Was a… rough night,” Harry replied, shifting so he could look at the witch. “Everything is… it’s just too much sometimes.” He sighed, hoping that Luna understood what he _wasn’t_ saying. “He stayed with me the other night, all night. He even let me sleep late. Fuck, Luna, I don’t know what to do. He gave me a… taste of everything I want, and this morning the ‘it’s inappropriate’ argument was back. I don’t get it.”

There was no reply, and he looked at Luna, who wore a knowing expression as she reached forward and carded her fingers through his unruly hair. She blinked, then hopped off the bed, saying, “I’m going to get Mrs Prout.” The door closed behind her before Harry could even ask why.

A few moments later, the loyal housekeeper came into the room. In her hands, there were a pair of scissors and a couple of towels, and she opened the doors to the garden, stepping out into the sunlight, the warmth of the April afternoon spreading into the bedroom. The doors closed and Luna re-entered with Draco, his expression inscrutable.

“Luna—?”

“Shh, it’s okay. Draco, will you help Harry up?”

Harry pulled the blankets back and sat up, preparing for Draco to move him. He almost couldn’t help the way his hand lingered on his Healer’s back as he was placed in his chair. He felt the slight tension of the muscles, and no words were said until Luna smiled and thanked Draco as he left the room again. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked.

“Come on. Mrs Prout is waiting,” she replied, opening the door widely for Harry to exit. 

It was bright outdoors, and Harry shielded his eyes with his arm as he manoeuvred his chair through the doorway. Mrs Prout smiled fondly at Harry and situated him for his haircut. He looked at Luna for a moment and sighed, resigned to what was about to happen. 

Mrs Prout spread out the towels around Harry and set to work, combing and snipping the messy hair as she hummed one of the tunes Draco had played for him one evening. 

“Draco likes it short,” Luna said knowingly, and Harry looked at her oddly as she curled a pale strand of hair around her finger.

Harry chuckled slightly when Mrs Prout ignored Luna and kept working as though she’d not said a thing. By the time she had finished with his hair, there seemed to be enough to stuff a couple of cushions scattered over the towels round his shoulders and over his lap. Harry ran his hands through his dark hair and was surprised by the way it felt. It was much shorter than he was used to, and Mrs Prout said, “You look very handsome,” with a smile as she removed the hair-covered cloths and brushed the hair from his neck. 

“Draco will like it,” Luna said after a moment of tilting her head from side to side like an inquisitive dog. She leant forward and gathered some of Harry’s hair, then reached inside her vibrant robes and withdrew a piece of string, which she began tying around the thick lock she'd assembled. Harry dismissed it as another of her incomprehensible idiosyncrasies, and shrugged slightly.

“Yeah,” Harry said, still running his fingers through his hair. His scalp was even more sensitive than usual, and he quite liked how it felt. He dropped his hand into his lap and murmured his thanks to Luna. 

She grinned impishly and twirled through the doors to the bedroom in the way only she could, and again he was left not knowing what she was up to. 

Bored with waiting for Luna to return, Harry went back inside the bedroom, his back itching a bit from stray hairs that had found their way down the back of his shirt. He took his time, slowly undoing each button on his shirt, so he could at least avoid having the little prickles and itches from the hair. When he got at least three buttons undone, he undid the cuffs of his shirt, and slid it over his head. Moving to the washing basket, Harry deposited his shirt and went to get another one, but stopped when he noticed a little white box on the floor, almost out sight under the blanket folded over the foot of his bed. Curious, he approached it, and not being able to lean over, he squinted a bit to make it out. His brows furrowed for a moment, then realisation hit him. The box was a speaker, a baby monitor. 

He wasn’t able to consider it further, though, because the bedroom door opened and Draco strode in. Harry blinked in confusion, his eyebrows dropping slightly.

“Wh-what… why are you here?” He was genuinely surprised to see Draco that early in the day.

“Lovegood said you would like a bath.”

“Erm… I suppose. It would get rid of the hair.”

Draco silently went to the bathroom and turned on the taps, returned, approached Harry and helped him stand, then removed Harry’s trousers and pants, allowing him to re-settle until the water was ready.

“Draco,” Harry started, pointing at the monitor, “do you turn that on every day?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Has it been there the whole time we’ve been here?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, curious why Draco wouldn’t tell him, and then he realised that he probably would have recklessly used it to his advantage had he known about it sooner. 

Draco looked mildly surprised by the question.

“It didn't occur to me. I only turn the other one on when I go to bed. It's just so I can hear you if you become distressed between checks in the night." 

“Oh,” Harry said, and Draco lifted him, carrying him to the bathroom.

Once he was situated, Harry laid his head back and closed his eyes, feeling the tension begin to melt away.

Draco began washing him, and Harry turned his head, smiling fondly. “Any news?” he asked.

“It's not eventi artium magicae mutare. I've tried all forty seven variations, and the sub-sequences. What's bizarre is that some of the test models yield results which suggest there's some sort of beneficial magic woven into it somewhere,” he added. “And that's nothing short of unbelievable. I still have a number of models running, though.”

Harry sighed contently. “I know you'll figure it out.”

A smile quirked Draco’s lips. “Even if it kills me.”

“I'm not worth that,” Harry said, without thinking.

Draco’s face went completely blank for a moment, and then reset into a faint smile which did not entirely reach his eyes. “I doubt you'd find many people who'd share that view, Potter,” he replied with a note of strain to the mild levity that Harry caught only because he had learned to listen more carefully to Draco’s speech.

“Maybe. Most of them don't know _me_ , though, do they? It doesn't matter. Just... I know you’re doing the best you can, and I don’t... if something happens, I don’t blame you." He looked at Draco, his expression pleading that his words be understood as faith, hope, not intended to hurt. 

He wished he understood why Draco had closed himself off again, and he sighed. “I appreciate everything you do. I know it's not easy, for either of us,” Harry said softly.

“It’s worth it.”

Whether it was the words themselves, or the oddly final tone, or something else, Harry didn't know, but something in that flat statement caught his ear. He found himself staring fixedly at Draco as he worked, the seconds passing quickly as the pieces began to snap into place: Narcissa’s statement suddenly made sense, and his heart felt like it was going to float away. An all-consuming warmth started at the tip of his toes and worked its way through his body, tethering him in place. The sound of the water splashing lightly was dulled by the pleasant hum of rushing blood and happiness that he seemed to feel with every breath and every movement of muscle. That Draco would never profess undying love didn’t matter, not when he’d repeatedly demonstrated his devotion to Harry on a daily basis, and if the possessive side Harry had seen on a few occasions was anything to go by, it would be for the rest of their lives if Harry would let him, and could avoid pushing him away. And Harry would. He’d gladly give as much as Draco wanted, expecting the same in return, hoping that he wouldn’t screw it up somehow. He’d never wanted anything so badly in his life, and knowing that _this_ is what he’d always wanted from a partner, he couldn’t help the whispered, “I love you, too,” that felt like it _needed_ to be said. It felt good to know that his feelings were returned on some level, even if there were still boundaries that felt as though they were miles wide, separating them from one another.

They were silent, the heaviness only broken by a soft groan from Harry when Draco began cleaning his cock, which had begun to harden under the tender movements. He moaned, his attention completely captivated by the contrast of their skin and the way he was handled. Draco really did have Harry in the palm of his hand, and he exhaled, knowing that after their conversation that morning, if he was going to continue receiving hand jobs, he’d have to make it clear that he wasn’t reading anything else into it. And he wasn’t – not when Draco had already given him exactly what he needed. 

Completely unsure if he was doing the right thing, Harry looked up and said, “Um... Draco?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you—” Harry flushed brilliantly, “—you know? I, er, understand it’s not… more.” 

Draco nodded, finishing actually bathing Harry before he took his cock in a firm grip, stroking him, teasing him. He was flailing in an ocean of sensation that he knew was going to drown him, and his only cry for help was panting Draco’s name, his fists balled as tightly against his body as possible. The rush simmered, then finally boiled over, sending him spiralling into oblivion. Harry’s eyes rolled back in his head as he arched, spilling come all over Draco’s hand.

He exhaled harshly and closed his eyes, trying to regain his equilibrium. He felt the flannel over his skin once more, and then he was lifted, towelled off, and taken to be dressed. 

Luna returned just before Draco left the room, and she stopped him, placing her hand on top of his, her thumb gliding gently across the space between his wrist and thumb as she turned his hand over in an oddly graceful gesture that left Harry staring. She reached into her robes and removed the lock of hair she had tied together and placed it in Draco’s palm, then turned to Harry and smiled. Draco regarded her for a moment, then nodded gravely and tucked it into his pocket as he departed.

They spent the remainder of the evening talking while Harry lay in bed. Luna played with his hair, running her fingers through it affectionately until she had to leave, but promised she’d see him at the party in a few days. With a gentle kiss to Harry’s cheek, she left. 

The rest of the evening went according to the new routine, and Harry lay awake that night thinking, knowing that he would have to talk to Draco. There were only so many choices in their situation, and Harry wasn’t willing to give Draco up, no matter what rumours circulated – not when he knew there were more feelings there than Draco was likely to voice, or be willing to hear voiced, at least in the immediate future. It wasn’t Draco’s way, and he accepted that, he just knew that it would take a lot of listening to what was left unspoken in order to decipher it properly. He could do that, would do that, because he wanted to be with Draco – was in love with Draco.

He smiled as the lingering scent on the pillowslip penetrated his senses and fell asleep, calm.

Harry woke earlier than the previous day, the sunlight shining brightly through the tall windows in the bedroom. He sat up and relieved himself, ignoring his erection. The door opened, and Draco entered; a smile quirked at Harry’s lips as he said, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Potter. How are you feeling?”

“Better. Thanks,” he said, his smile remaining.

Draco took him to brush his teeth, and returned him to the bed. He let his Healer begin the stretches before deciding to begin the discussion he knew needed to be now, or else things would continue as they were, and Harry couldn’t be doing with that.

“Draco?” he asked, waiting for a reaction before continuing.

Draco glanced up, and knowing that he had his Healer’s attention, Harry took a breath and began. “I’ve been thinking. Erm, when all of this is over, no matter what happens, between us, people are going to talk. They’ll assume, if we’re together after, that you took advantage anyway. I mean, you know how they are; we've both dealt with that. I, erm, don't want that for you, but I don’t want to go back to the way things were. Things have... changed... between us. I don’t care what anyone says in the papers, and you shouldn’t, either.” 

The closed-off, shuttered expression had slammed over Draco's face almost as soon as Harry had started speaking. Looking back at his own hands, Draco began, “If—” but Harry wasn’t going to let him start an argument, not when he needed to say what he’d realised earlier in the week and had decided the previous evening to talk with Draco about. 

“I just don't see the point in waiting when no matter what, we’re going to be judged.”

Draco’s shoulders set, showing his discomfort with the conversation. Harry really didn’t want to cause him discomfort, but they _needed_ to discuss this.

“If I can state under Veritaserum that nothing untoward happened while you were in my care—”

“You can’t, though,” Harry interrupted quickly. “That's already not true.” 

Pale lips thinned in irritation, the only clue Harry had to what Draco was thinking apart from the words he spoke. 

“I have only ever sought to protect you.”

“I’m not disputing that. And you have! I can't even... That's not the point, though. If you were being honest when you said after this is over— what do you think will happen? People talk. The _Prophet_ lives to publish lies, even with Skeeter gone.” Harry shook his head, wondering why Draco hadn’t thought of that eventuality. “We both know it’s pointless to keep waiting for this to end, now.”

Harry wouldn’t break eye contact with Draco, not when he had him engaged in a serious conversation, and he noticed the brief flash of something almost forlorn behind the cool mask.

“And what of my conscience?”

“I think you know that I’m probably the only person it matters to, apart from you. You’ve done everything the right way from the start. I don't think you have anything to be... ashamed or afraid of. “

Draco’s shoulders set again. “I’m not ashamed,” he said. “Yet.”

“I think we both know the moment you slept in here, things were changing and there was no going back.”

“That’s as may be,” he replied stiffly.

“I’m sorry,” Harry replied. He hadn’t expected to feel guilty about the turn in events, but he did; Draco’s distress was enough to make his heart sink painfully. “I’m sorry.” His voice was softer than before, and Harry was thankful that for once his body hadn’t reacted to the ongoing stretches – that would have made him feel worse than he already did.

“You’re not to blame,” Draco said, his jaw set tightly.

“How’s that? I wanted – needed – you there and—”

“That's hardly your fault.”

There was something about the way Draco clipped each word, the measure of control employed, that made him think he was about to be left alone now that his stretches were over, and as Draco released his hips and helped him shift to his back again, Harry reached out to grab his wrist. He didn’t care that Draco needed time; he wasn’t willing to let him go – not yet. The boundary between Healer and lover had already been crossed, and there was no way for Draco to deny it any longer. Harry thought that if he asked for a kiss and Draco returned it, the blond would have no choice but to acknowledge that the boundaries no longer existed and that there was no point in waiting, no point in pretending there was nothing between them when it was so obviously untrue.

Harry inhaled and took a leap, hoping Draco would catch him. “I know you’re going to disappear for the rest of the day. Kiss me before you go. Just once.”

That Draco didn’t pull away immediately, re-asserting his control of their exchanges, was enough to give Harry a sliver of hope, even if the blond was rigid enough to be the shattering statue from Harry’s dream, and the slight tingle of panic – that Draco _would_ shatter, or turn away and leave him sitting there – began to claw at him uncomfortably. 

Draco stood still for a long time, his thoughts locked away from Harry’s ability to perceive or understand. There was no change in his expression, or any change in his stance for agonising minutes, so Harry’s heart was in his throat as he watched Draco move forward slowly, his heart seeming to skip at least three beats before Draco’s lips were actually against his. His entire body shivered with joy, and he closed his eyes, feeling the tender pressure that lingered, making his mouth tingle and his hand ache to reach out to touch. His lungs began to ache from the breath he was holding, and his hand dropped from Draco’s wrist, seeming to break the spell that had nothing to do with wands and wizardry. 

He had his answer, and even if he hated when Draco pulled away, he let him go, trying to catch his breath long after the door had closed and he had been situated in his chair. Mrs Prout brought his breakfast, and he ate completely in a daze, rejoicing in the knowledge that Draco had once again given him exactly what he’d needed, and he promised himself that he wouldn’t take that for granted – not when he knew how much it had cost Draco to give that to him.

**~*~*~*~**

The walled garden that was attached to Harry’s rooms at the Manor was vibrant and full of various flowers. A pleasant scent, warm and sweet, clung to the air, permeating his lungs with each inhale. Rather than sit in his bedroom brooding, he decided it might be best to enjoy some sunlight for a change, and slowly moved around the grass, just observing. When he moved, he noticed something shimmering in the air surrounding the wall, usually only catching it out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and concentrated on one spot, noticing the slightly shift in a translucent barrier, that reminded him of the barely visibly heat waves that undulated in the summer heat, between the walls and the rest of the grounds. More than a little impressed with the magical ability and power it must have taken to section off such an area from magic, Harry smiled with pride. 

As it grew too hot for Harry in the sunlight, he headed back toward the Manor. On the first floor, there were many rows of windows, most with the curtains drawn, the rooms empty, except for one, where he could clearly see a visibly troubled Draco speaking with Narcissa. Watching mother and son, Harry almost felt as though he was intruding on a private moment between them, only he didn’t want to look away. Having not really taken time to assess Draco’s face or anything else, apart from his obviously wilful and obstinate nature, he looked at the sharp cheeks and pointed nose, mentally tracing them with ghostly fingers as he tilted his head to the side. His skin was pale around spreading patches of heightened colour; Harry had already noted on more than one occasion how adorable Draco was when his cheeks flushed. When he had been younger, Draco favoured Lucius more, but now that he was older and had matured, Harry could see more of Narcissa in him.

They were both graceful, and Draco lithe, something that Harry had never considered he’d find so enticing. Watching from the garden, he was able to see gestures and body language that was usually hidden as Draco tried to maintain his distance, and he wondered what would have happened if they had met somewhere else, without the complications of an illness forcing them to dance around each other, rather than together. How he had become so attracted to Draco Malfoy, Harry didn’t know. Maybe it was that he had never had time to focus on whether he liked men or women, or maybe it was just Draco – he had liked Ginny well enough, and hadn’t known something had been missing until he’d fallen for his Healer. That should have scared him, but it didn’t; it only made him hope that things would change, that they would find a way to manoeuvre around the obstacles, obviating the need for more conversations that would leave Draco looking as he did right then. 

With a sigh, Harry entered the bedroom, making his way to the dining table for lunch. He had just got settled when Narcissa entered, a pleasant smile on her face.

“Mr Potter, you’re looking well.”

“And you, Mrs Malfoy, as always,” he said, smiling. 

“I have just had a... somewhat unusual conversation with my son.”

“Oh?” Harry asked, clearing his throat in sudden nervousness.

Narcissa smiled faintly. "He was... one could almost say 'overwrought' without exaggeration,” she said, inclining her head slightly and raising her eyebrows.

Harry cleared his throat again, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "I just asked him what the point in waiting to begin a relationship until I’m well was, when no matter what, people will talk.”

“Ah. And might I ask how he responded?” Narcissa’s expression was completely unreadable.

“Er, he didn’t, really.” Harry frowned. "Apart from saying he’d testify under Veritaserum that nothing untoward had happened while I was in his care, but he couldn’t say that. It’s not true any more.” Harry sighed. “We haven't talked about it any more… that was this morning,” he said, still frowning.

“Hmm.”

“He won’t talk about it. He just gets angry. I don’t care what the papers say, and I can help with that. I don't want anything to happen to him.”

Narcissa closed her eyes for a moment. “I devoutly hope that you didn’t actually put it that way.”

"No. Apologised, really. I didn't plan any of this and it makes it harder." Harry frowned again.

“Draco didn’t plan it, either. Please remember that, Mr Potter. And, while you famously thrive on improvisation, my son - in this context - does not. He is struggling to come to terms with it, even as you are. Perhaps more so, insofar as you have wholly accepted the reality of your... attachment, while he still seeks to cling to an illusion of reserve. I have often thought that my son is clever, but perhaps not very wise. A regrettable inheritance from his father." 

“I know that. I know it’s difficult. I… just - he's wearing himself out. He'll sleep in that chair at the foot of my bed, and I know it isn’t good for him. And that's not going to help find answers, either. I just - want what's best, and this ignoring that there's something between us isn't helping. He stayed with me the other night when…” Harry sighed. “Healers don’t kiss distressed patients,” he said, more a comment to himself than Narcissa.

“Not in the generality of circumstances, certainly.”

Listening to Narcissa’s words, he realised he was going to have to elaborate, and he really didn’t want to. It was bad enough that Draco had witnessed every piece of him on the floor, but to admit to it, that was something else entirely. He wasn’t sure what to say, and eventually he just started speaking.

“It’s too much sometimes, you know? I’m afraid. I trust him to find an answer, and I don't blame him if he doesn't, but I don't want to die and not have known. He'll, um, deal with my basic sexual needs - but only because I can't handle _that_ myself.” Harry flushed brilliantly, his gaze focussed on his plate. “He stayed with me when I lost it. And I… want him to stay without me having to break down. He only kisses me if I'm distressed, and I don't want that, either. I just don't want to be the patient any more. And he doesn't trust anyone else. So I'm stuck. No matter what. I watch him struggle with it. And I don't like that. I can’t do anything.”

Narcissa appeared to consider Harry’s words and finally said, “You can do as you have been, Mr Potter. Guide him. Guide him firmly. He will respond to your hand on his rein, I believe.” She paused for a moment. “It may interest you to know that I echoed your sentiment, when we spoke earlier, in connection with the popular press and his professional reputation. Rather more strongly, I fancy. My son will always have to contend with the fact that he is a Malfoy. There are those to whom that simple accident of birth will always render him guilty, no matter what the charge or evidence. Those are the people who will insist, as soon as a breath of your... association... becomes known, that my son has compromised or constrained you. And the rumours he fears would circulate even though Merlin himself attested that his conduct was beyond reproach while you remained in his care.”

"I'm going to lose him if I keep pushing. I've already been pushing,” Harry said forlornly.

“Then, if I might make so bold as to suggest it, stop pushing. Guide him gently.”

“I've never done this before,” Harry sighed.

Narcissa smiled faintly. “Nor has he.”

“I’ve tried to; I backed off. But I know if I don't keep trying, I'll lose him, and if I'm trying too hard I'll lose him. I know that.”

“Mr Potter, have you ever encountered a certain Muggle phrase involving... now, what was it? The turnip and the stick?”

"I believe it’s a carrot, Mrs Malfoy." Harry flushed.

Pale eyebrows arched in genuine surprise. “Is it? Ah, well. One root vegetable is very much like another. The principle, though... you speak of 'pushing'; have you perhaps considered enticement as an alternative?”

“That, erm, just makes him shut down.”

Narcissa smiled then. “Then perhaps - and I trust you will not take this amiss - you are offering the wrong enticement.” Harry regarded her for a moment. “Still, I must thank you for one thing, Mr Potter. My son has not felt the need to confide in his mother for several years. I had almost begun to feel redundant.”

It was clear to Harry from Narcissa’s tone that she was drawing the conversation to a close, and before they could lapse into other topics, Harry decided he needed to ask outright for her help; she hadn’t steered him wrong yet. He had just been slightly foolish in his interpretation of what she had suggested. Better yet, he had inferred what he had wanted to hear, not really listened to what she had said.

“What, erm, should I do? I mean, I know I can’t do much, but he plays for me and he’s changed his tea, and I haven't done anything.”

Regarded for a disconcertingly long moment, Harry almost thought she wouldn’t answer the question, then, to his relief, she said, “My son abhors mint in all its forms. And he harbours a deep partiality for caramelised pecans. And...” she stopped abruptly, giving Harry an oddly narrow look, almost as though she preferred prompting before saying what was on the tip of her tongue.

“And?” Harry asked, quite anxious to hear what she had to say.

She frowned slightly. “There is no reason for you to have been aware of it, of course, but... If you were to explore the house, as I regret you cannot, you would surely stumble upon the room in which my son’s brooms and Quidditch gear are stored. And, if you were to inspect those things closely, you would observe that they have been untouched for... several years.”

“Why hasn't he flown?” Harry asked quickly, his thoughts racing to make a connection. “Erm, he always seemed to like it. Unless…” Suddenly as though the Fiendfyre were on his tail again, the realisation rushed him head-on, and he looked at her for a moment, then said, “I would have thought he'd be more afraid of fire after that.”

Narcissa smiled slightly, the tension evident, and Harry added, “I was.” He sighed. “I can't do anything about that until I can be around magic again. But… I’ll do what I can.”

Inclining her head in acknowledgement, Narcissa said, “I have always found that a reward following an achievement tends to encourage one to greater effort. Or tolerance.”

Harry didn’t miss the note of finality in her tone, so instead of continuing, he ate his lunch slowly, and he returned to his room, making a plan. Before he could do anything, though, he noticed that the remainder of his clothing had arrived while he was with Narcissa, and he smiled, appreciating the fact that he had taken the opportunity to purchase the new clothing. Mrs Prout knocked a few minutes later, and began to put everything away for him. Once he knew what he needed to do, he requested that she contact Hermione for him, and told her exactly what he wanted, making sure to emphasise that cost was no object. If Hermione was able to come, it would be a few hours before she arrived, and it still gave him the opportunity to think of other things Draco might appreciate. 

Ideas ranging from flowers to the more absurd gifts – like precious jewels and artwork – ran through his thoughts, things that he remembered Ginny liking, but while he wasn’t sure what Draco would want, he had a feeling that anything big was out of the question. Hermione would know exactly where to get some toothpaste that wasn’t mint-flavoured, though, and she could get the caramelised pecans in London, too, since it was on the way from Wood End. 

Suddenly Harry’s vision was completely obscured, and he felt warm breath against his ear, a voice saying, “Guess who,” making him turn quickly and look at Luna, surprised. 

“Luna! You scared the piss out of me! Don’t do that!”

“Sorry. You were concentrating so hard, I couldn’t help it,” she said with a smile. “What are you thinking about?”

“Um… what should I get Draco? His mum told me some things he likes, but what about flowers? Would he want that? I don’t know what to do,” he said and ran his fingers through his hair. But Merlin he liked the way it felt against his hand. It was much softer and even he had been surprised by how good it looked on him. He was hardly vain, but Mrs Prout had given him a haircut that brought a smile to his face. “I don’t want to do roses… I don’t like them very much, and Ginny liked them too much, so probably not a good idea—”

“Purple orchids,” Luna interrupted matter-of-factly. 

“Why those?” Harry was mainly wondering why purple, when Luna took a seat on the sofa and folded her legs under her. 

“They mean ‘I await your favours’,” she said. “And purple is Draco’s favourite colour.”

“How do you know that?” Harry asked.

“It’s obvious.” She tilted her head to the side and smiled at something no one else could see, then added, “He doesn’t like silk.”

“Will you catch Mrs Prout and ask her to phone Hermione again? Tell her to buy some purple orchids?”

“Of course, Harry,” she replied.

Luna wasn’t gone long, and when she returned, she smiled softly.

“What are you doing here? I thought you wouldn’t be calling again,” he asked.

“Draco needed some files on some research we’re doing,” she said. “But he’s not here, so I left them on his desk.”

“Where is he?” Harry asked, his brows furrowing.

“He’s gone to finish at Hightrees. He and Bill were able to remove the Fidelius Charm, so now they are removing the rest of the magical items. It’s a Muggle house, so there isn’t a lot to do, but enough that he needs help. They have to close the Floo still… things like that.”

“How do you know that?”

“If I were in his position, that’s what I’d do.”

Harry shook his head and laughed slightly. They spent the afternoon chatting, Harry nervously waiting for Hermione to arrive, hoping that she’d been able to get everything he had asked for; it wouldn’t do not to have something for Draco. 

Shortly before dinner, Hermione finally arrived, a lush, tall stem of purple orchids in a vase in one hand, and a bag from a shop in London, along with her personal things, in the other.

“I need a quill, or a pen,” Harry said, reaching for the card attached to the flowers. 

Luna retrieved a quill and inkpot, and set it in front of Harry. With more effort than he’d ever felt before, Harry picked up the feather and began the arduous task of signing five simple letters. It was slow moving, but he eventually got the first two scratched onto the thick card before his hand began to shake and his manual dexterity declined. He hated it, but he wasn’t going to stop, not when he only had three letters to go.

“Stop – you’re going to exhaust yourself,” Hermione said, watching him with those sad, pity-filled eyes he hated.

“No, I’m not, Hermione. Just, belt up, yeah?”

“Harry, this is pointless. I could do it, or Luna… you don’t have to.”

Harry looked up, then, making sure he had Hermione’s attention before he spoke. He wanted her to listen when he said what he had to say. “I do have to do this. I don’t care if you understand or not, but don’t tell me it’s pointless. I’m going to sign my bloody name, and that’s final.”

Hermione huffed indignantly for a moment, then sat back, watching as Harry struggled through the final letters. When he was done, his hand was cramping badly, and his arm was shaking, but he had signed his name to the card; he had made the sacrifice to his comfort, because he wanted Draco to know how much he meant to him. He dropped the quill, his fingers curling in on his palm as a splash of ink dropped on the corner, smudging slightly when his shaking hand moved against it. Luna picked up the quill for him, then put the note with the flowers. Hermione handed the caramelised pecans to Luna, and the witch disappeared to fetch Mrs Prout. 

Harry tried to relax his hand; he breathed in and out slowly, not moving his fingers, not moving his arm, just breathing until the pinched feeling began to subside a bit. While he had been worried about his hand, Hermione had begun reading something, and it was then that Harry noticed something wasn’t quite right. He couldn’t place what it was, but Hermione seemed different – somehow. 

“Hermione, are you all right? You seem… erm… off it, a bit.”

She lowered her book and looked at Harry, appearing haggard around the eyes. She took a breath and said, “I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, congratulations,” Harry said. “Um, how far…?”

“About five months.” 

“Erm,” Harry said, seeing that there was something else, something she hadn’t said. He was glad that he was still able to read his friends, even if he hadn’t had much luck with making sense of Draco yet. “Anything else?”

She sighed heavily and looked at Harry, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, and he felt like a fish out of water, unsure what to do, but knowing he didn’t want to be there in that moment. He had no idea how to handle Hermione when she was distraught, and soon she was speaking far faster than he could understand, so he only caught a few words now and then about Ron, and how he was being a complete prat about everything. It was highly disconcerting for Harry to listen as one of his best friends implied that her marriage with his other best friend was not far from total collapse. It grieved him that his own problems had blinded him to his friends’ troubles, when he was certain he would have seen it a year ago. Hermione and Ron had always seemed like Molly and Arthur to him, a loving couple who would have more children than money and still try to give them the world. Not having known about the tumult in his friends’ marriage made him feel disconnected and distanced from those he had previously been closest to. He was relieved beyond words when Luna returned, to offer her quiet reassurances until Hermione excused herself to the loo and returned, her face clean and a little more composed. 

Unable to stay much later, Luna left, and Harry and Hermione were alone again. She remained light with her topics – an almost nervy edge to her tone as she spoke, possibly attempting to avoid breaking down on him again, skirting the issue of him and Draco for as long as her inner know-it-all would allow before starting to drone on about the importance of using condoms and anything else her mind could conjure to lecture Harry with about any possible sexual relationship with Draco. He was tired of it, and quite thankful to go to dinner, hugging Hermione goodbye and thanking her again for bringing what he’d asked for. She had obtained two types of toothpaste from her parents: one aloe-flavoured and one cinnamon-flavoured. Harry wasn’t keen on the aloe, but he asked her to put both of them in the bathroom anyway.

After dinner, he sat listening to Narcissa read as he grew tired. It wasn’t even half eight and he was ready to crawl into bed and not wake up for another day, but he knew it would still be a while before Draco returned from his work. Instead of actually allowing the words Narcissa spoke that evening to penetrate his thoughts, he tried to identify _why_ he was so hopelessly attached to Draco, but he couldn’t – not when it was all feeling and gratitude and appreciation. It was like trying to sort out torn pages, easing them back together and still making sense of the words when letters were missing. He understood it, but he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, define what it was about Draco that had attracted him so strongly. 

There were so many little things that Draco had done in their time together, considerate, loving things, that Ginny had never done, and he disliked that he wasn’t in a position to do the same for Draco. And more than anything, Harry wanted that, wanted to taste it, and feel it until he was consumed by it, then give it back. He’d let himself be consumed by Draco, and that was something he’d never had with Ginny. He trusted Draco – more than he could ever remember trusting another person, and amidst all of that was the attraction to him physically that he had never expected. Surprisingly soft lips were able to torment him in such a bittersweet way, and he wanted more of it, so much more – even if it was something he’d never experienced.

Unaware that Narcissa had been speaking his name, he blushed, apologising for his inattentiveness, and bade her good night when she rose to leave. 

Not long after Narcissa had left, the door opened and Draco entered, his face unreadable, and Harry smiled broadly, noting the strain around Draco’s eyes. Forcing his frustration with not being able to help, or do _anything_ , aside, he said, “Hey. Rough day? You look tired. I really don't need another bath, you know.”

“Bathing relaxes you. It’s a beneficial adjunct to the physiotherapy.”

“What if I said I _am_ relaxed and I’d rather know you were getting some rest? You look knackered, and carrying me back and forth isn’t going to help with that.”

“I’m fine, Potter. I spent most of my ward experience considerably more tired than this.”

“I worry about you,” Harry said softly. 

“Don't. I'm quite capable of maintaining my own wellbeing, and you have enough to worry about.”

“Draco—” Harry shook his head. “Never mind.” That Draco, running himself ragged for no reason apart from trying to find an answer, seemed not to care for his own wellbeing was really starting to worry Harry. He’d watched closely the way Draco seemed more drawn and tired than the previous days, and it was starting to get to him. Not for the first time, Harry wondered if Draco, too, realised how he appeared – a reminder of their sixth year touching Harry’s thoughts briefly before he chased it away again. That was the past, and this was not the same Draco.

"Thank you, by the way,” Draco said.

“Thank you?” Harry asked, his mind on other things.

“The flowers. And the caramelised pecans, or was that one my mother, or Lovegood?”

“You didn't see the card, then?”

“I did. You did remarkably well for someone who can't hold a quill. Can I trust that you had the sense to ask someone to massage the cramp out of your hand?”

“Hand’s fine. I, um, gave you both. Couldn’t sign both.” Harry frowned, holding his still-cramped hand close to his body.

“Then thank you for both.” Draco smiled faintly. “Presumably," he added meditatively, “my mother has been talking. Odd to think that she used to be so discreet.”

“Seeing you like that more often would be nice.” Harry smiled faintly in return, only to see Draco frown and then shake his head slightly. 

“The remainder of your purchases from the tailors should have arrived by now.”

“They did. Thanks.” Harry looked down, trying to figure out how he was supposed to unbutton his shirt, even a little, when his fingers were still curled into his palm, the muscles not relaxing enough for him to open his hand yet. As long as he didn’t try to move it, he was fine. He didn’t want to rely on Draco further, or worry him. 

Harry looked up, Draco’s gaze fixed on his hand. “You _didn’t_ ask anyone to deal with it.”

“No. You have enough to worry about.”

“Outright lying does not help, Potter,” Draco said sharply, moving across the intervening distance. He took Harry’s hand firmly, massaging it gently. 

Harry hissed at the burn of his muscles being forced to relax. “I wasn't lying. I did what you do and chose which question to answer.”  
Draco snorted. “Your exact words were ‘hand’s fine’. It manifestly is not. Don't even _try_ that, Potter. I am far better at games of this sort than you will ever be.”

“I just don't want you to worry. This is exactly why I said it’s fine. I'm not needlessly trying to get your attention.”

“It's not needless if you're in pain.”

“I'm not in _pain_ ,” Harry retorted quickly, the discomfort in his hand fading quickly.

Harry looked up, noting an eloquent expression on Draco’s face as he replied, “Don't be difficult.”

“I could ask the same of you,” Harry muttered.

“For a man who hates being reminded of his status as my patient, you go conspicuously out of your way to invite the reminder.” Harry curled his fingers around Draco’s briefly, a gesture of appreciation as his Healer added, “The professional relationship requires your co-operation. Or do you intend to hold your own health to ransom?”

Harry sighed. “I… just wanted to do something nice without having to be… I'm sorry. And I wasn't in pain, just uncomfortable. I wanted to do something for you. It meant something to me to give that to you. Can you understand that?”

“Yes. And I did – do – appreciate it. But you mustn’t start compromising your own wellbeing for the sake of romantic gestures. It’s more important.”

“I never said it wasn’t.” Harry sighed again. “I really can’t get any of this right, can I?” Harry asked with a nervous laugh.

Even if it was only a partial smile, Harry still found himself responding to Draco’s in kind as he pulled away. “Your effort is duly noted and appreciated, nonetheless.”

Dextrous fingers undid each button on Harry’s shirt, then pulled the garment off him. Draco left to start the bath and returned, helping Harry out of the rest of his clothes. Settled, Harry wanted to know about Draco’s day, wanted to know if Luna had been right about what she’d told him.

“What did you do at the house today?”

“Just spellwork. Removing the remainder of the standing charms, closing the Floo connection, and so forth. Granger arranged for a Muggle to fit a burgher-alarm, since it’s no longer Disillusioned or Muggle-Repelled.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” And knowing that Draco wouldn’t like what Harry was about to ask, he steeled his courage before he looked at Draco and asked, “Will you do something for me? If I don’t walk again, but I can be around magic, will you take me flying? Just once?”

Harry felt like he was looking at a photograph the way Draco froze, just for the blink of an eye, then regained his footing.

Slowly, Draco began to speak, his words enunciated clearly. “I haven’t even touched a broom for years.”

“Why not? You were a brilliant flyer,” Harry prodded gently.

“Generous of you,” Draco snorted in reply. Whatever line there had been connecting them for those few moments had broken, and the urbane man Harry was most familiar with was gone, some of the former adolescent peeking through. 

“What? You were. I loved flying with you. You were really good. I just got lucky a lot of the time,” Harry said, pausing for a moment. “So why did you stop flying?”

With a disbelieving expression, one that read ‘you cannot possibly be serious’, Draco said, “I lost the taste for it.” He continued washing Harry. 

“You won't take me flying, then?”

“I...” He stopped. “Let’s get you well enough to hold on first, shall we?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, blinking slowly, his face flushing with arousal as he smiled. “Thank you, Draco.” Draco wasn’t refusing him, which he felt was a step in the right direction. His gratitude was more for the lack of complete rejection of the idea, even if he had avoided actually answering the question. Harry knew, from what Narcissa had said and not said, that Draco’s fear of flying had come from that day in the Room of Requirement. He’d had his own fear of fire since then, not of brooms, though: they had always felt like freedom and safety to him, even more so after that night. 

His train of thought was abruptly and comprehensively derailed by Draco’s hand closing around his cock. 

Adrift on the waves of Draco’s ability to propel him into delirium, Harry reached out, his fingers tangling in white-blond hair as pleasure, precise and consuming, drowned him. “Draco – fuck,” he gasped. Harry’s hand dropped to the water as he arched, his voice echoing in the still room.

 _Thump_ after _thump_ in Harry’s chest began to slow to a steadier cadence. “Erm,” he cleared his throat, “do you want me to…”

“No,” Draco replied flatly, assisting Harry out of the water.

“I don’t really know what to do; I want to do something for you…”

“Sleep through the night,” he said, towelling Harry off and taking him to bed.

**~*~*~*~**

Days flew by with rarely any variation in the routine. Harry had declined Narcissa’s offer to read for him that evening; he wanted some time alone, to think, and after the morning’s disaster of Draco having someone else, a Muggle masseuse, tend to his massage and stretches before breakfast, he really needed to work a few things out. He had been honest when he’d told Draco that he had been uncomfortable with the woman who had been hired. Her hands just hadn’t felt right in the same places as Draco’s. He had worried that his objection to the Muggle woman would be taken the wrong way, and articulating what was off about her had been difficult. He had eventually stammered out enough of an explanation, and Draco had accepted it at face value, to his immense relief.

Over the past few days, Harry had learned that Draco had become almost expert at anticipating his wants, which had led to a few snogging sessions, but never anything else, and he had still been giving Harry the hand jobs whenever Harry had become aroused, but neither was what he had expected it to be. Even if it was silly to treat his dreams as the basis for his expectations about Draco as a lover, he knew that what he was getting couldn’t be all there was to it. And slowly he had come to realise that Draco was letting Harry control any intimacy between them, and he didn’t want that. 

That night during his bath, when Draco began to masturbate him, Harry tried not lose himself to the sensations. He watched grey eyes trained on the wall, and asked breathlessly, “Why won’t you look at me?”

Draco’s head turned slowly, his expression completely inscrutable as he made eye contact with Harry. Even with the lack of expression, Draco’s eyes meeting his was enough to make Harry lose control, and try as he might to maintain it, he couldn’t, and came faster than any of the previous days. 

After stretches and being dressed, Harry looked up, Draco beside him, already anticipating that a kiss was wanted, and he breathed in, hoping that he wouldn’t be proved right. Soft, pale lips pressed against Harry’s, moving slowly, allowing Harry to set the pace. The taste was bittersweet, of defeat and resignation, a lingering sourness that made his stomach lurch a warning. He extended his tongue, meeting Draco’s in a slow caress, and suddenly found that he couldn’t take any more. His stomach felt like it was in his throat unexpectedly, his thoughts swaying like tree branches in the wind. He felt dizzy, and wanted to throw up, his entire body cold, a sudden breath of frost against his skin. Harry jerked away, unable to catch himself with his hand as he fell against the pillows, and looked at Draco in mortification and dismayed disbelief.

“Merlin, Draco, this isn’t what you wanted at all, is it?” he demanded, trying to steady himself. He felt sick, the bile already rising in his throat, ready to torment him for his stupidity. He couldn’t believe Draco would do something he didn’t want to do, turned himself into a whore for him because Harry had wanted sexual contact, and he couldn’t understand the reasoning behind it. He was angry with himself and with Draco, his thoughts reaching his lips before he could process them. “What the fuck, Draco? I really, really didn't want that to be true, but it is. N-no I can't believe this. Merlin, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Can I get you to the loo, or do I need to bring you a basin?” Draco asked, a slight frown on his face as Harry twisted away. 

“Just don’t touch me right now, please.” Harry inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to calm the roiling in his stomach. Lying back, he closed his eyes. “I can’t believe this. Can’t believe _you_!”

“You wanted me to look at you.”

Harry couldn’t decide if Draco was being obtuse or if he genuinely didn’t understand what Harry was so upset over, and he looked at him, speaking carefully to make his point clear. “I asked you why you don’t; I didn't say ‘look at me’. Merlin, Draco, why?” He hadn’t wanted to be right; tasting the truth of what had been in front of him the whole time was almost too much, his confusion, anger, and guilt playing havoc with his mind and body. “I'm such a twat. I asked for it and you gave it… and I was such an idiot about it. I didn't even notice it. Was too wrapped up in enjoying it to fucking notice.”

Harry looked at Draco, noting the distinct lack of expression that he seemed to favour when he was in the midst of something he really wanted to get away from. “If you don’t want to kiss me, don’t. Don’t do it because you think that’s what I want, because this defeated giving me what you think I want is just _wrong_.”

The inscrutable mask slipped into place, and Draco said blankly, “I’ll see you in the morning,” and left quickly.

Sleep eluded Harry most of the night, his eyes closing and body too tired to stay awake about the time the stars began to hide their faces. When he woke, he had no idea what time it was. His body was tense, and he sat up slowly, relieved his bladder, and dozed as he waited for Draco. Eventually the door opened and Harry remained silent as he was taken to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He moved slower than usual. 

The tension between them was thick, and despite Harry’s not having an erection of any sort, Draco prepared a bath for him – just like he had the other mornings when Harry had been aroused. He didn’t comment, knowing his tense muscles would appreciate the hot water, even if he was too distracted even to think about a bloody hand job. 

He tried to force his anger aside, but it remained behind, the slimy feeling of oil on water.

“I don't understand,” Draco said bluntly, irritably, and wholly unexpectedly.

It took Harry a moment to realise that Draco had seemed to pick up the conversation right where they had left off the previous evening when he’d left abruptly. And Harry, still not on any more solid ground than he had been, supplied the first response that came to mind. 

“I don’t want it like this. I feel like I’m… raping you or something. I can’t do this. I won’t do this. You’re completely separated from it - and I just can’t do that.”

Draco stared at him. “ _Raping_ me? Do... y... Good grief. You seriously...?”

“You’re not doing it because you want me,” Harry said tightly, unsure what the hell was going on. One moment everything had been fine and he’d been blissfully ignorant, too wrapped up in his own wants and needs to have noticed the distress his wants were causing Draco. 

“I’m doing it because you want it,” Draco replied, seemingly wounded.

“It’s not the same. Can you not see the difference?”

Grinding his teeth, Draco said, “It didn’t appear that you could.”

“I can!” Harry snapped, feeling the slight tingle starting in his fingers.

“I really do not understand,” Draco reiterated, the words digging into Harry uncomfortably. 

“I made a mistake.” Harry frowned, his chest beginning to feel tight. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

“Don’t start winding yourself up. You haven’t hurt me,” Draco said. “Just relax.” But the tone was neither soothing nor reassuring.

“Relax? How am I supposed to relax? I’ve been… taking what you’ve been giving and been too thick to notice you really didn’t want it, even when you were doing it without me asking, and you expect me to relax?”

Harry’s hands were shaking, and the cold fingers of panic began their insistent caress. 

“Potter. Harry. You’re making yourself hysterical. Slow down. Breathe.” Draco’s voice had dropped to a low, urgent hum. 

“Get me up. Get me up, please,” Harry pleaded; he felt too closed in by the bathtub.

Draco helped him up, wrapping him in a towel, and asked, “Where do you want to be?”

“The bed; I don’t know. Not here.”

His eyes darted around the room, looking for a way out, only he couldn’t have left if he tried, and when he felt the bed beneath his body, he inhaled sharply, trying to force the panic away, but it wasn’t working, and then he spoke, his words tumbling out quickly, disjointed thoughts, of assumptions that had been proven wrong. 

“When you left the other day and kissed me, I _thought_ you did it because you wanted to – and now I know you didn't… and I can't deal with that.”

Draco stared at Harry, his face uncomprehending. “I gave you what you asked for. You knew I wasn't comfortable with it.”

“I didn’t know you weren’t comfortable when you did it and I didn’t ask! What I think or knew doesn’t matter, though. I’ve completely misunderstood everything and fucked up. I—” Harry stopped, and tried to breathe. Constricting guilt over what he had done, how he had hurt Draco, made him gasp in order to get enough oxygen into his body. He swallowed with great effort and tried to continue. “I was stupid. I thought when you left and asked you to kiss me that you understood. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault; I wanted it too much. Was stupid.”

“But that's why I did it. You wanted it,” Draco said, frowning.

“But _you_ didn't.” It hurt Harry to watch Draco try to put the pieces together, to understand that he wouldn't accept submission in place of volition; that it horrified him to think that Draco felt he had no choice but to comply, rather than choose to give himself freely or not to give himself at all. With harrowing clarity, Harry gained an unwanted level of insight into some of the experiences that had obviously made Draco the man he was. 

“Which you knew.”

“You have a choice! If you don’t want to do something, you say no. If you do, you do it – otherwise it’s confusing. I was an arse,” Harry said. “I don’t understand why you would give me a hand job, you'll kiss me without me asking, and then won’t look at me during the hand job. I don’t know if you're trying to keep your boundaries or what, or if you really don’t want me, but giving me what I want is not what’s best for either of us. It’s just bloody stupid to keep pretending one thing is separate from the other. Don't do something because I want it. Do it because you want it.”

Draco blinked rapidly, replying, “It didn’t seem to bother you before. And I did say no. Repeatedly.”

“Because I made a mistake! You didn’t say it when you did it without me asking!”

“And you did understand that the masturbation was like bathing you. It's a personal care need. There didn’t seem to be much point protesting further.” 

“No point? There is a point! You did something you didn’t want to do to please me and that’s not acceptable!" Harry shook his head, his chest tightening again. “I can’t believe this. I… don’t understand why you would give in if it’s not what you wanted. That’s confusing. You say no, and all I have to do is say ‘please’ and there you are, giving me what I want. And then I didn’t even ask any more and you just did it, and I can’t believe I have to explain the difference!”

“If I hadn't carried on doing it, you would have started asking again,” Draco said, reasonably. “And you clearly weren't prepared to accept ‘no’.” He shook his head. “What exactly is it that you _do_ want?”

“I want to stop screwing up,” Harry said. “And I want you, but if you don’t want the same thing, then say so. I want to know that you’re kissing me because you want to, not because you feel like you have to, or because it’s going to make me belt up about it.” Harry sighed. He wanted so much more than that, but he didn’t know how to ask for it without pushing Draco away completely. He felt damned lucky he hadn’t been spat on and left to stew in his own stupidity already. “I don’t care about the hand jobs. I… if you want to keep thinking it’s okay to do one and not the other because you’re still tending to my needs a patient, then I don’t know what to say. This is complicated and I don’t have a clue what’s going on. I never wanted you to do something you were uncomfortable with.” Harry covered his face with his hands, completely at a loss for what to say or do. He’d fucked up.

Draco frowned. “I need you to be comfortable. The masturbation is a factor in that. I want you to be happy, insofar as you can be in your present circumstances... everything else is a factor in _that_.”

“Do I look comfortable to you?" Harry snapped. “You still think I’m going to change my mind. You don't know me if you think that. And I’m not happy. I’m not happy because you’re trying so hard to keep things one way when they've changed. And you’re just as responsible for that as I am.”

“I acknowledge that the situation has changed.” 

“Then make up your mind what you want to do about it. I want you… us, but if you don't, then I need you to tell me.” 

“And you're becoming overwrought,” Draco said, his voice tense but his words dropping into place with mechanical precision. “I have already told you—”

“When this is over, yeah. Because you care what the papers are going to say or about losing your job, but you _won’t_.” Harry bit back a reassurance that he wouldn’t let anything happen to Draco, as he was well-aware that was not the best way to make his argument. “Do you think they are going to care whether you kissed me or gave me a hand job? They aren’t. It’s no different now or later. You've already crossed the line,” Harry said, his voice low.

A slight sneer curled Draco’s lips. “Oh, I'm convicted before I’m tried; I know that.” Harry looked at Draco, his eyes burning. “What do you want me to say, Potter? That you were right all along? Fine, then. You were. Once again, Draco Malfoy is wrong. I can't argue with you. I can't deny you. You've _won_. Again. I can’t imagine why I thought even for a moment that I might stand some chance of holding you to a course of action you didn't choose to follow. I have no arguments left. I am defeated on every point.” Draco scowled. “If you want me for your lover, you have me. But unless you harbour an equal desire to die, you will still allow me to be your Healer and to act as that role demands.”

“W-what?” Harry asked, wondering if he’d heard properly. He was tired of misunderstanding things, or screwing up. “Is that what you want?” Draco snorted in response. “Don’t tell me that if you don’t want it, too. I’ve fucked up enough.”

“Really,” he stated. “What I want, Potter, is not to be condemned of a crime I didn’t want to commit without any sort of fair hearing. But since I inevitably will be, I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”

Draco’s phrasing turned what Harry would have expected to be elation into dismay and made it difficult for him to speak. “I— I’m sorry. This isn’t what I expected. I don't want to hurt you and I have. Repeatedly.” The fire of fresh tears burned Harry’s face, and he reached up, wiping them away; he hadn’t even realised he’d begun to cry, and he heard the rustling of fabric, looking at Draco’s slightly twisted mouth, a handkerchief extended to him. 

When Harry reached out, he felt Draco’s hand close over his, not releasing the bit of cloth. There was a faint smile on Draco’s face, something with sharp edges and broken glass just behind it, and he leaned forward. Harry’s heart seemed to stop as he felt Draco’s mouth against his face, his lips tenderly removing the traces of tears from his cheeks. Harry wasn’t sure what to do, so he held his breath, not trusting his voice.

A fraction of a second separated them, and Draco pulled back, a look on his face that Harry had never seen before, then he leaned forward, his lips pressing against Harry’s in a moment of sublime rapture that spread from where they were touching, throughout the rest of his body.

There, in that moment, Harry wasn’t in control; his lips moved against Draco’s, their tongues colliding, swirling, really tasting one another for the first time: the anguish, the torment, the love, each with their own unique flavours. If he could have swallowed Draco whole, taken him into his body just to feel him, he would, and just when he thought he might, he let Draco take the lead and if he was swallowed in the process, he didn’t care. 

Lungs burning with the need for air, Harry inhaled deeply when Draco pulled away. He ached from the loss, staring at Draco with so many thoughts and feelings, not all of them ones he could voice. 

Draco’s face was attractively flushed, and, struggling to catch his breath, Harry asked for help standing; he wanted to be on the same footing as Draco, wanted to know that he was an equal, if only for as long as it took for his body to force him back into bed again. His eyes searched for permission as he wrapped his arms around Draco’s neck, pulling him in for another kiss, much slower and less heated than the first, groaning when he felt Draco’s erection against his.

Shaky on his feet, Harry was lifted and placed back on the bed, and Draco lay down next to him, his fingers tracing Harry’s chest as he leaned in and kissed him again, stifling the moan of appreciation that was trapped between their lips. 

Teeth, pleasantly firm, pressed into Harry’s jaw while Draco’s hand worked the towel away, and his strong fingers gripped Harry’s cock. Stimulation of lips and tongue against his neck distracted him for a moment, and Harry cried out, his fingers wrapping in Draco’s hair as each twist and jerk against his cock made his thoughts cease. Bathed in affection, Harry couldn’t hold on. Feeling the unrestrained caress of Draco’s dedicated mouth against him was too much, and he pulled the lips that were too far away back to his, his tongue moving slowly against Draco’s. 

Harry’s head dropped against the pillow. “Draco,” he panted as lips and tongue ran from his stubbled chin, across his Adam’s apple, stopping between his collarbones. “Mmm, Draco,” Harry moaned. He reached out and ran his fingers down Draco’s arm, stopping at Draco’s hand, just to feel them together without Draco immediately pulling away.

Harry opened his eyes and looked at Draco, completely consumed by the look on the other man’s face. He was lost.

He closed his eyes again as a wave of pleasure sent his mind reeling and his body shuddering as Draco’s hand sped up and Harry’s fingers pulled at blond hair until he couldn’t get their mouths any closer. 

Then the sticky heat of come covered Draco’s hand, dripping onto Harry’s skin as he fell into the madness of pure sensation.

Awareness, slow, soothing, crept through Harry, and he tasted the scent of Draco’s breath next to his mouth when he inhaled, a slow, tender smile spreading across his face as he turned his head, looking into storm-cloud grey eyes that threatened to drown him in their downpour of intensity – something he could only see if he was looking for it. 

He wanted time to stop, just for a little while, but he knew that wasn’t possible, and eventually he lost the comfort of Draco’s body next to his. Always gone too soon. 

Draco cleaned him carefully, then dressed him in a pair of pyjamas, the feel of his fingers gliding against Harry’s leg, sending a shiver of desire, of happiness, through him. 

“I’ll have Mrs Prout bring your breakfast in here,” he said, after he had buttoned Harry’s shirt. “I’ll see you later.” His promise was sealed with a kiss, unexpected and wholly welcome, that left Harry’s cheeks red and lips tingling. 

“Have a good day, Draco,” Harry said, a contented smile softening the lines of worry that had seemed to etch themselves into his face.

After breakfast, Harry settled comfortably, closing his eyes and drifting into a restful sleep. The anniversary party was the next day, and Harry knew he’d need as much energy as he could save for it. He was glad that they had decided to return the day of rather than going earlier; as much as he liked his house, he had grown fond of the Manor and would miss it once he was back at Hightrees.

He slept after lunch, waking for dinner, taking it in bed again. After dinner, Narcissa, if she noticed anything odd about the smile that curved Harry’s lips, didn’t mention it; she sat and read to him for a while, excusing herself shortly before Draco arrived for Harry’s bath. 

Harry was all nerves when he saw Draco again, a residual fear that the morning hadn’t actually happened, and he had dreamt it. Words were limited, brief inquiries between buttons slowly being undone. He wondered if he should like being against Draco as much as he did when he was carried to the bathroom, and surrounded by the sultry air of the bath, he found himself barely able to keep his eyes off his… lover. That was what Draco had said: he was Harry’s lover.

The Healer routine was complete, and Harry fixed Draco with a questioning gaze, wondering what would happen next. He bit his lip, trying to decipher what was going on behind those grey eyes, and wasn’t prepared when Draco leaned forward – he released his lip in surprise – trailing his tongue along the indentation of his teeth, making every nerve in his body tingle with excitement. 

Taking Draco’s face between his hands, he tilted his head to the side and leaned forward. Possession, passion – it was all part of the way it felt to have Draco giving himself freely; he couldn’t think. “Fuck,” he whispered harshly when Draco’s hands cradled his head, his fingers pulling Harry’s hair, exposing his neck to the skilful mouth against his skin. “What are you waiting for?” he gasped as nimble fingers moved over his hip, a thumb pressing against a particularly sensitive spot. 

“In due course, Potter. Be patient. Unless you’d rather just have your Healer back?”

“I’ll take Draco now, thanks,” Harry said, smirking, as his hair was pulled yet again, the animalistic intensity making him groan wantonly. Luna had been right: Draco did seem endlessly fascinated by his shorter hair. His fingers were always in it; stroking, tugging, ruffling – and driving Harry up the wall. 

He kissed Draco again, and was lifted from the bath, dried, then taken to bed. Harry lost track of what was going on when his cock was completely enveloped in Draco’s mouth; he’d never felt anything so intense in his life, and it wasn’t long before he was coming, his throat dry from the harsh sounds of pleasure.

In a daze, he held Draco’s face in his hands, kissing him softly, whispering, “Goodnight, Draco,” after he had been dressed and settled comfortably. 

“Goodnight, Potter,” Draco said, kissing him once more before leaving the bedroom. 

 

To Be Continued…


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter title taken from Shakespeare’s “Henry IX”. I don’t own it. Beta read by the fantastic Romany, who fills in the holes and makes this so much better than when it started! 

****

Chapter 26: The Better Part of Valour

A familiar scent, ubiquitous and soft, penetrated Harry’s senses as he woke. Blinking against harsh morning sunlight, he turned his head toward the bathroom when he heard the taps turn on and saw Draco exit moments later as he slid his glasses onto his face, the room no longer appearing shadowy and indistinct the way it did when he wasn’t wearing them. He smiled faintly, taking in Draco’s features, and noticed that the bruise had nearly faded, the last traces of a scorned lover’s anger dissipating like words spoken. There was something almost softer about his expression than usual, but Harry wasn’t sure if that was just what he wanted to see; the fatigue was still quite visible, despite any perceived or imagined differences in his expression and seeing that, and knowing that it was his fault, was worrisome.

“Morning,” Harry said, stretching his arms, fingers, and wrists with brief, refreshing twists, his chest bowing into the air as the tension of sleep taunted and then dispersed like a whisper.

“Good morning, Potter,” Draco replied. His tone felt different, too, even though it was the same, and Harry pulled the covers back as he sat up, a shy, questioning smile moving across his face. 

After helping Harry remove his pyjamas, Draco took him to brush his teeth, an expression of surprised approval on his face as he squeezed the tube and a light-green glob spread on Harry’s brush. He cast a foamy smile in the mirror at Draco as he was steadied, Harry’s head just below his chin. He finished brushing his teeth, relieved his bladder properly and was positioned on the towel-covered toilet seat to be shaved. Precise and gentle swipes of the blade moved against Harry’s skin in a slow rhythm; he closed his eyes and listened to Draco’s slow, even breaths as he worked, and when he was done, Draco wiped the excess white from his face. Harry ran his finger along his jaw and neck as he was helped to stand, and felt the smoothness, a tingle of sensation against his fingertips.

“Is it not close enough?” Draco asked, his breath against Harry’s ear.

“You tell me,” Harry said, leaning in, rubbing his cheek against Draco’s.

“Hmh. I think so.” 

“Me, too,” he replied as he was lifted, then lowered into the gentle caress of the bath.

“Thank you,” Harry said, trailing a curious finger across Draco’s sharp cheekbone, nervous in the tentative touch. Now that he was able to touch without being rejected, he was afraid that he would ruin it, somehow fracture the delicate balance with one wrong step. He was grateful that Draco hadn’t refused him outright for his foolishness, and the uncertainty of what was allowed and what wasn’t kept him from doing much more than following Draco’s lead.

“My pleasure.”

Harry smiled, a display of everything written inside him, everything he felt, as his thumb traced the arch of Draco’s pale brow before his arm refused to allow him any more. 

“How did you sleep? You still look tired,” Harry said, concerned.

“Well enough. You?”

“Very well,” he said, blushing. “What time do we have to leave?”

“After breakfast.”

“Okay. We have some, er, time, though, right?” Harry asked, the shade of red on his cheeks deepening. 

“Yes,” Draco replied, and leaned forward, kissing Harry slowly, sensuously, leaving his mind in a haze. Draco’s thumb moved against his hip in the same spot as the previous night, and a harsh gasp burned his throat as the pressure increased, and his head lolled back with each pass of those firm, calloused fingers against his skin. 

Draco finished washing him, then towelled him off and lifted him, and Harry, hoping his returned attention was acceptable, ran his tongue along the shell of Draco’s ear, biting it gently to tease, then dragged his teeth along the long, pale neck. The muscles tautened slightly, the skin reddening faintly with each pass of saliva and teeth, Draco’s scent permeating his mouth, a unique explosion of flavour: sweet and salty. 

He was placed on the bed, his legs straightened comfortably, and Draco moved through his physio before he lay down next to Harry. He wanted to feel Draco, his skin, his erection, their shared warmth, but he wasn’t sure how to ask for it. He really hadn’t ever done anything like this before, and the dizzying excitement coupled with the weight of sensation made it hard to do anything, hard to voice what he was thinking or wanted apart from feeling. 

“Take your clothes off,” Harry blurted. “Please. To touch you, too.” The words were inarticulate as always, but the faint smile in response told him Draco understood exactly what he wanted, and he slowly withdrew from the bed. He stood and pulled his shirt from his trousers, and Harry watched as the pale expanse of Draco’s chest was slowly revealed, the livid scars he’d seen already in stark contrast to the man’s complexion. 

Draco’s skin was smooth, faint traces of blond hair across his pectorals, and Harry admired the firm abdomen and chest before his attention was captured by the movement of Draco’s belt tongue, then the twist of a button and zip falling. He swallowed and watched intently as the dark trousers fell to the floor, followed by pants. Harry felt his face redden even more at seeing Draco completely naked. His long and very hard cock was dark with the blood of arousal and Harry moaned softly at seeing the smooth ripple of muscle as Draco turned, picked up his clothes, and placed them in the chair at the foot of Harry’s bed.

He returned, lay down beside Harry, his fingers mapping the same path he had the previous morning, and the anticipation of those fingers against him made his cock throb. Harry wasn’t used to the slow tease of skin against skin for the pleasure of it, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Sensation erupted throughout his body where sinuous legs brushed against his, fingertips teasing, pressing into all the right places. It was slightly maddening the way Draco could touch him to elicit such a loss of control from him. All it took was a hand against him, then tongue, flat and unyielding, drawing the pleasure from his navel to his throat, pulling each gasp of pleasure from him, the heated sound connecting with Draco’s lips as their tongues collided, Harry’s sucked into Draco’s mouth: a reminder of how those lips and tongue had felt against his cock the previous evening. He reached a tentative hand out to cradle Draco’s flank, the other against his side, feeling the expansion and contraction of muscle with each breath. He was so warm. When there was no objection to the touch, he pressed his lips against the lines of the scars on Draco’s skin and slid his lips their length, his eyes closed, as he felt the same guilty, possessive pride that had overcome him when Draco had removed his shirt to bathe Harry a few days prior. 

The sensation against his lips was intoxicating as his breath excited Draco’s skin and he kissed each jagged indention, an apology long overdue for his stupidity, one he’d dreamt about giving, now finally could. He moved his hand down Draco’s side, and felt the first unfamiliar spark of sensation against his sac as Draco moved his fingertips along the wrinkled surface. The pleasant pressure of his hand enveloped his balls and he manoeuvred his own hand to a narrow hip, sliding it along the definition of Draco’s body. His lips surrounded the small, pert nipple he had disfigured and he gently ran his tongue over it. 

Draco’s skin was smooth to touch, responsive, and growing bold, he finally reached for the cock that had fascinated him as a hitched groan made him pull away from Draco’s chest. Whatever was being done to him was marvellous and he’d never felt anything like it before. His vocal admiration didn’t end as he panted against Draco’s chest, his hand closing around the weight of the other’s cock. He closed his eyes and familiarised himself with each ridge and vein until he was at the base of the long shaft, the neatly maintained wiry curls of Draco’s pubic hair against his fingertips. 

Exploring further before he lost the energy to touch at all, he slid his hand lower, feeling the soft, pliant flesh of Draco’s balls. He wanted to memorise the texture. 

A kiss distracted him, one that drew him deeper, his entire chest and throat vibrating with each pleasured sound that echoed within him. 

Inebriated with pleasure, Harry relaxed when Draco pulled away, his mouth moving along Harry’s chest, stomach, and hips, completely avoiding his cock. Then he felt moist breath against his sac, the searing heat of Draco’s mouth on his balls, his tongue hungry against Harry’s body, forcing his hands to curl in the sheets.

He was aware of Draco’s nose against his pelvis and the heat of his mouth, and his own voice pleading for more. 

“Yes,” he hissed. “Oh, yes. Draco.”

Words failed. His mind went blank and the world fell away as he plummeted into the consuming darkness of orgasm – the only tether to reality the warm splash of semen against the canvas of his body as he arched from the bed and gasped just to taste oxygen again. 

“Trying to kill me?” Harry asked breathlessly as he regained his equilibrium and saw the same smirk from earlier on Draco’s face. Cloth moved against his skin, wiping away the traces of stickiness. 

They lay together, Draco’s hand in Harry’s hair, making a pulse of electricity shoot from the roots of his hair to his toes. Nervously, he said, “C-can I, erm— will you—?” He inhaled, his face hot as Draco’s breath condensed against his cheek. “I’d like to watch… you.”

Being unfamiliar with voicing what he wanted, apart from the moments of impulsivity, Harry was completely out of his depth, and was oddly comforted by the brief kiss that would have curled his toes if his body had been working properly. He smiled in response to the expression, wicked and sexy, that spread across Draco’s face in answer. Seeing Draco as though he were just a dream prompted Harry to reach for his glasses as their bodies shifted, and long, pale legs spread, bent at the knee, as Draco rested his back against one of the four intricately carved posts at the end of the bed. 

The blessing of clarity roused something unfamiliar in Harry, and he watched in rapt fascination as Draco’s hand dropped between his parted thighs, his gaze fixing Harry in place. How those eyes could pin him helplessly, Harry didn’t know, but at that moment, he didn’t care. All that mattered was watching as the flush of arousal covered Draco’s face, and each muscle moved, flexing seductively under the mid-morning light. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, mental hands roaming over each stretch of skin exposed for his pleasure, their pleasure, as sure, firm fingers wrapped around Draco’s prick and began to move, the other’s lowering to his sac to massage and tease with expert knowledge. 

Draco was silent, his eyes never drifting away from Harry’s, even if his own needed to learn the body he’d dreamt about. He noticed the similarities and differences, mainly Draco’s cock, and asked, before thinking again, the awkward curiosity giving rise to the flush against his cheeks, “Why are you—?”

Draco’s eyes glittered in amusement. “I trust you aren’t asking why I’m _hard_ , Potter?”

“No,” Harry said, gesturing to his own cock embarrassedly. “You’re… not like me.”

“I know.” The rough edges of the expression deepened, and Harry felt his spent cock stirring. “I was circumcised as a child. Medical.” He watched Harry for a moment. “You like it.”

Harry wondered if someone had burned his skin as hot as his face was, and he nodded, continuing to watch the slow, even strokes that sped up, little by little. 

He watched the ripple of muscle in Draco’s chest with the increase of speed and pressure and he let out of a soft moan. 

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked softly, making eye contact.

Draco smiled lazily. “You, of course. I do have _manners_ , Potter.” 

“W-what—” Harry swallowed, “—a-are you thinking about me?” 

Draco’s tongue was trapped between his teeth for just a moment before he answered. “I’m imagining what your arse tastes like, and how you’ll wail when I fuck you with my tongue.”

Harry groaned softly, his body seeming to remember the way Draco’s fingers had felt between his legs, and he imagined that tongue moving over his arse, in his arse, and he flushed brilliantly, continuing to watch Draco, whose eyes were still on him, that slow blink of arousal covering the grey irises at unsteady intervals. 

Draco’s chest began to rise and fall faster, his breaths becoming shorter, heavier with each stroke, twist, and jerk until he was coming, and Harry watched his face, completely ignoring the white along Draco’s hand. In that moment, Draco’s face was the most open he’d ever seen, and Harry felt like he was really seeing Draco for the first time: there was nothing hiding the pleasure or the softness that overcame usually carefully schooled features in that moment.

“Fuck, Draco,” he whispered, his voice loud in the quiet room. Draco’s silence through his orgasm made Harry want to hear him, made him want to make Draco lose control completely.

“You don’t think it’s that easy, surely?” Draco asked as he cleaned himself. 

Startled slightly, he looked at Draco and said, “Nothing worth it is.”

Draco smiled again, and rose from the bed, taking the towel back to the bathroom. Harry licked his lips as he watched Draco move, the powerful sure steps, and smiled.

A brief knock sounded at the door, and Draco looked at him. “Are you hungry?” 

“A bit, yeah.”

Draco left the room for a moment, and Harry watched his arse, his thighs, and back as he moved. When he returned, it was with a tray of breakfast: pastries, toast, and fruit. Harry wondered if he had answered the door starkers or if he had arranged for Mrs Prout to leave everything after knocking.

They ate in comfortable silence, still naked, and Harry cast a glance at Draco as he used his fingers to feed himself. It was seductive in a way Harry wasn’t sure he could really explain. Each time he looked at the soft cock and low-hanging balls between Draco’s legs, he noticed how Draco shifted, almost like a peacock preening, showing himself off further for Harry’s benefit. He smiled to himself, some of the weight of the weeks no longer bearing down on his shoulders painfully as he enjoyed the ease of their eating breakfast together in such an intimate way, one he couldn’t remember ever enjoying so much. 

After they ate, Draco helped Harry dress, and Harry kissed him again after he had been settled in his chair. He really didn’t want to go back to Hightrees. He’d grown comfortable at the Manor, and going back to his house, where he knew he’d see Ginny and be reminded of the lie he’d lived, made him sick to the stomach.

Draco left Harry alone for a few moments to so that he could prepare the corridor for their departure, and he waited patiently, until the door finally opened. He smiled unconsciously and asked if they were ready to go. Draco nodded, and Harry turned on the power to his chair, following him from the rooms. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the undulating waves that blocked the magic from the long corridor, and heard Draco request that Narcissa not dissolve the dead zone. Aware as he was of Draco’s prudence and forward-planning, it still made him feel something he couldn’t identify when he actually bore witness to the care he provided. 

He felt properly looked after for the first time in his life as Narcissa gave him a hug and a light kiss on the cheek in a motherly gesture he could only remember having got from Mrs Weasley – only this time it was all for him and not one of many absent-mindedly bestowed on him among a bustling horde of redheads. There was something about earning such affection from her that made it seem so different and _right_ compared to Mrs Weasley. He had always felt like the Weasleys were family to him, but there had always been a feeling that he was just another face in the crowd, another face at the table, and the focus, intent, behind Narcissa’s understated affection was like being given a precious gift, one he’d never realised the particular value of until it had been given. And then Harry wondered if that was something else that Draco had inherited from his mother: the intense focus that made the world narrow to two people interacting. Folding it up and tucking that feeling of warmth away for later was all he could do as Narcissa pulled away. 

A silver MPV much like the one they had arrived in was waiting for them outside, and since Harry was unable to move his chair down the stairs leading down from the door, Draco carried him to the conveyance, placing him on the seat, then collected Harry’s chair and settled himself. He was slightly surprised that Draco had placed him in the middle, where he’d be next to Draco whichever side he chose to sit on, but the thought didn’t linger for long: he wasn’t going to question it, just appreciate the gesture for what it was as a smile stretched across his face. 

Narcissa waved from where she stood in the door, and Harry wondered briefly how different – if at all – things would have been for him if he’d grown up with that in his life, if he’d had a mother and father, or even if the Dursleys had tried for him in the same way they had tried for Dudley. His cousin, he realised, had at least attempted to change from the spoilt git he’d been – Vernon and Petunia were still just the same ever. He craned one last time to see Narcissa’s faint outline as the grounds of the Manor slowly began to disappear with an odd sort of longing as they left through the large gate and began the trip back to Ropley. The feeling that he was leaving something behind, even though he couldn’t place what, was strong as he turned to look at Draco, resettled his attention, almost searching for what was missing – searching for what seemed to disappear with every breath that took them further away from the Manor. He was conscious of every movement, or lack thereof: Draco’s hands were in his lap, clasped together, his attention straight ahead. There was so much control; each breath seemed to be measured, and it just reminded him how different they both were from when they had been kids, and his thoughts led him to remembering the day he and Draco had met for the first time. 

“Do you remember the day we met?” Harry asked, his tone low, intimate. It was refreshing, he thought, that Draco hadn’t known who he was when he’d entered Madam Malkin’s that day so many years ago when he’d made overtures of friendship. Everyone else he’d met had always seemed to know who he was, treating him as though he deserved something – praise, admiration – for events and achievements that weren’t even entirely clear to him. The one defining difference with Draco was that he had met him without any expectations. The Weasleys had been kind to him, but when he thought back on it, he realised that even once they knew who he was, there was almost a certain expectation of behaviour and ability that came along with his name – the notoriety giving him a status that he didn’t want or need. 

“Vividly,” he replied, his tone suggesting strongly that the recollection displeased him.

“I didn’t shake your hand because you’d reminded me of my cousin that day at Malkin’s. When you talked about bullying your father into buying you a racing broom, that was the sort of thing Dudley used to do. He'd get pissed off if he didn't have one more birthday present than the previous year. And he acted like that. I'm sorry I judged you.”

Draco stared at him for a moment, inscrutable again, and Harry continued. “I was just getting away from them, you know? They’d called me a freak all my life and it was like I was seeing my cousin again. Then you insulted Hagrid, when he’d been… well, the nicest person I’d met, really, apart from Mrs Figg. And I know he was a bloody awful teacher–” Harry inhaled as he saw the flare of Draco’s nostrils. “I’m glad you aren’t like that now. I’m glad I’m not the same, too…”

Draco snorted and turned away, and Harry knew that he had hurt Draco, but also recognised that he couldn’t apologise for it. His words had been hurtful, even if he hadn’t intended them to be, but it still didn’t change anything. All he could do was try to show he had forgiven Draco for the past, and since words were hardly Harry’s most effective form of communication, he leaned against Draco slightly, his hand dropping to the space between their legs, and he started to caress the other’s black-clad thigh, but hesitated and dropped his hand away. With their bodies closer together, he could smell that unique scent that made him feel comfortable and relaxed despite the tension he had provoked between them with another unintentionally wounding remark, and said with a smile, “You smell good.”

And in a calculated moved to push the subject out of Draco’s mind before he had the chance to brood on it, Harry asked, “What did you like to do before I started taking up all your time?”

There was long pause, which Harry understood, but still made him think Draco wouldn’t reply, then the words came and he was glad he had been patient. “Nothing you’d consider exciting, I’d suspect. Read. Visited galleries. Took long walks.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t consider it exciting? Walks I’d like. I miss that. I haven't been to a gallery for a while. I got tired of all the noise when I was an Auror, and I used to take breaks between long cases and walk around London. It was still noisy, just different, but the one quiet place I always found was a gallery. One day I saw Luna looking at a painting, and she swore there was a Crumple-Horned Snorkak or something in a tree. Saw an advert for an auction at one of them once, so I went.”

A brief smile lightened Draco’s closed expression. The fear that had kept Harry from closing the distance between his hand and Draco’s leg was pushed aside, and he ran his thumb along Draco’s thigh lightly.

“Is this all right?”

Draco’s attention shifted, and he said, “At the moment.”

Harry smiled. “Can we go to a gallery? I want to see if I can find another piece of sang de boeuf. I can still go to Muggle places, right?”

“Yes, you should be able to, as long as nobody catches sight of you and decides to cast a spell at you. But I would have thought an auction house would be a better choice if you want to expand your collection.”

“Either one. You’ll be there, though, won’t you?”

Grey eyes rolled in response. “You’ll need me to take you there, I suspect. I doubt any of your friends other than Granger would have the patience for the places.”

“Hermione doesn’t much like the galleries, or auctions… Luna went once. She's the one who showed me that bowl.”

Draco registered surprise. “It seems I still underestimate her. Unless she feels some obscure need to behave more oddly when out with me than she does when out with you.”

“I think the more she likes you the odder she is,” Harry laughed. “She watches me sleep sometimes. I woke up and she was in bed with me the other day.”

Draco’s expression slammed shut again, and Harry wondered what he’d said to prompt that. A tight, unconvincing smile was on his face as Draco replied, “She must like you a great deal, then. I don't believe I ever warranted that.”

“You know her well, though,” Harry said, remembering the way she had touched Draco, and the possessive heat that had coiled around him at witnessing such an intimate gesture between them. “At least the way she touched your hand when she gave you that bit of my hair. She only touches people like that if she’s comfortable with them. I’ve only ever seen her do something like that with Rolf and me.”

“I know her well enough.” 

“She’s done a lot for me.” Harry inhaled, and he decided to try for honesty. “I didn’t like that she could touch you that way and I couldn’t.”

“ _She_ wasn’t propositioning me.” 

“Should it matter? She touched you like a lover would.”

“She wasn’t my patient, either. And if you _still_ can’t—” Draco stopped.

“I _do_ understand,” Harry interrupted quickly. “I just… didn’t – don’t like it.”

“Then I won’t let her do it again.” 

“Does that bother you?”

“No. Why would it?” 

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked. I've never, erm, really cared before. About that stuff. With Ginny. I do with you, though.”

Draco’s eyebrows twitched upward for a moment and he tilted his head to the side slightly in response. Harry continued to rub his thumb against Draco’s leg, aware that the rhythm of the tyres on tarmac had started to make him sleepy. He leaned his head to the side, resting it against Draco’s shoulder, happy with the reply he’d received. He noticed Draco’s fingers twitch slightly, though nothing came of it, and he realised he’d never seen that before. 

“I want to get a telly or something. I like reading all right, but that’s really all I’ve done. I mean, it would be all right if I could go out or something, but if I’m in bed most of the time…”

Harry felt Draco’s nod against his head. “I’ll see what I can do about a power supply. Granger, presumably, can obtain the thing?”

"Yeah, she can. Do you want me to move?” Harry asked.

“It’s all right.” 

Harry smiled again, his thumb still moving against Draco’s leg in a steady cadence to match the beat of his heart. The comfortable silence gave him time to think about the coming evening and recognise that he _really_ wasn’t looking forward to seeing Ginny. Then again, he realised, Draco couldn’t really be looking forward to having to deal with any of the people who would undoubtedly be present at the party, especially considering which family it was. He probably hadn’t seen many of them since the Battle of Hogwarts, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if Draco was looking forward to seeing the woman who had killed his aunt. “Um, you’re really not looking forward to tonight, are you?” Harry asked. “I wouldn’t blame you, really.”

“I’ve attended worse social functions.”

“I’m sure the difference was choice, though. I’m not really looking forward to it, honestly. I was fine at the Manor.”

“They’re your best friends. You’ll regret it if you don’t go.” There was a momentary hesitation in his speech and he said, “Though I could just tell the driver to turn round.”

“Yes, and then have Ron sending a search party to find me. No, thanks. But you’re right: they _are_ my best friends, and I _would_ regret not going.”

“I’m perfectly capable of repelling any search party Weasley might send to the Manor, Potter. It’s my own ground, after all.” 

“I have to be there.” Harry frowned. It occurred to him that Hightrees was supposed, really, to be _his_ own ground – it just didn’t feel like it any more. “That’s what they expect. I wouldn’t mind seeing Luna and a few others, but… I could go to bed early. Or we could go back after… You're more comfortable there anyway. And I like it enough. I like Hightrees, but it doesn’t mean anything any more.”

Draco craned to look at Harry, mild surprise in his expression, and asked, “You want to return to the Manor afterwards?”

“Why not? That room felt more like _my_ room than the spare room at Hightrees. I liked it there. And you have more access to what you need there than at my house. And if I sell it, which... I should, now that you’ve got rid of all the charms on it…” Harry trailed off, seriously considering the notion of selling Hightrees. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before, but now that the thought had occurred to him, it felt like the right thing to do. He didn’t want to live there any more, not after what it had become: a symbol of deceit and betrayal. “And your mum was good company.”

“The charms on the property can be replaced when you’re recovered, you know.”

“It’s not about the charms on the property. It’s just a lie. It was the house Ginny and I picked, and it was all a lie. I don’t want to live there. I can find another place, or something… I’ve got enough money to do whatever I want. No point holding onto something when it doesn’t mean anything good.”

Draco seemed to contemplate that for a moment, and then shrugged. “If you have serious intentions about selling the place, I can contact Praie on your behalf. I’m sure he’d be willing to have one of his clerks handle the transaction for you.”

“I’d like that,” Harry said, rubbing his cheek against Draco’s shoulder slightly. He noticed the twitch of Draco’s fingers again and added, “Thank you.”

His face lifted when Draco shrugged. “The firm has been my family’s solicitors since the early nineteenth century. It’ll hardly be the most onerous thing they’ve been asked to do for us. ”

Harry nodded with a yawn, then the words began to wrap around him, and he wondered exactly what Draco had meant when he seemed to have included Harry as a part of the family. “You don’t mind going back to the Manor, do you? I just assumed you were running all of your tests there, so it would be easier.”

“It’s just magic. I can do it anywhere. But no, I have no objection to returning to the Manor. Mrs Prout will be delighted.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m surprised you’re so fond of the place.”

“It’s comfortable. I’m comfortable there. The garden is nice, and I have enough rooms. More than I need, really, and I can hear you play the cello.”

Draco made an amused sound. “The cello is actually portable.”

“True. It was just a suggestion, though. I mean, if you don’t want to take me back to the Manor, it’s… it’s okay. Um, my house isn’t… comfortable. It doesn't feel like home any more.”

“You don't have to justify it to me, Potter. If you want to sell the place, I can put you in touch with my solicitors, who will happily deal with it for you; and I have no objection to keeping you at the Manor.” Harry’s stomach turned over in a way that he couldn’t decide was good or bad at the implications – some of which probably hadn’t been intended – of ‘keeping you’, and it made him more aware of what Draco was saying, the steady timbre of his voice. “We know you’re safe there, and you say you’re comfortable enough, and I will admit that it’s nice to have the library immediately to hand. My mother enjoys the company, and Mrs Prout is fond of the gardens, so there really – to use one of fforde-Fane’s favourite expressions – is no actual _downside_.” A sense of gratification settled within him at the idea that Narcissa liked having him around, and then there was Draco’s consideration for Mrs Prout, which both surprised and pleased him, giving way to mordant amusement that Draco had borrowed one of fforde-Fane’s expressions. 

“Do you want to go back tonight or tomorrow morning?” Harry asked, his voice modulating sleepily.

“In the morning, I think. You’ll probably be too tired to undertake a return journey tonight.”

“Is purple really your favourite colour?” Harry asked, yawning again.

“Who told you that?” he asked, on a note of surprise and faint amusement.

“Luna. When I asked Hermione to get the flowers, she said your favourite colour was purple and that you don’t like silk.”

Draco snorted softly. “One could almost begin to feel like the victim of a conspiracy.”

“Not a conspiracy.” Harry smiled faintly. “I just needed a little help. I couldn’t do it…”

Draco remained silent, so Harry said, “You changed the subject again.”

“Did I?”

“You didn’t answer me. You asked who told me.” Draco shrugged again. “I don’t really like silk, either. Gi—” Harry paused, realising it would probably be a bad idea to talk about Ginny. “Feels weird.”

“Hmm.”

Harry closed his eyes and let the comfort of Draco’s strength ease him into a state of half-waking, half-sleeping.

“I’m glad you took over my care,” he said, smiling faintly.

“As am I.”

**~*~*~*~**

Afternoon sunlight streaming through the bedroom window woke Harry, and he blinked a few times to orient himself, realising he was in the spare room at Hightrees. He looked around and saw Draco sitting in an armchair across the room, looking much like a statue bathed in shadows.

“Hey,” Harry said, stretching slightly. “How long have you been there?”

“Not long. How did you sleep?”

“Okay.” He smiled, then heard indistinct noise from the garden and asked, “Have they already started?”

“Some have arrived, yes. How do you feel?”

Harry shrugged slightly. He felt fine. There was always a lingering sluggishness when he woke up, but it was nothing new. “Same as always. Just want to be done with it.”

“You will be. The field of possible answers narrows every day.” Harry hadn’t meant his illness, even if he _was_ ready for that to be over with, too. “Are you ready to get up?”

“I s’ppose,” Harry said as he reached for his glasses. He slid them onto his face and sat up, watching Draco as he stood. He was wearing a pair of bluish-grey trousers, a jacket draped over the back the chair, and Harry, wanting to be dressed nicely, asked, “Will you get my black suit and a white shirt?”

Draco nodded as Harry sat up and relieved his bladder. He removed his jumper and rolled his shoulders a bit. “I can’t remember what ties I bought; can you pick one?” Draco nodded again he laid the shirt, trousers, socks, and jacket on the bed. “Erm, and I’d like to brush my teeth,” he said, not really wanting to ask for anything else, but he’d been asleep for a while and his mouth felt foul. He was, he reflected, lucky that he had Draco, and even though he hated asking for so much, he couldn’t imagine anyone else he’d rather assist him with such personal things. Once he was settled in his chair, he made his way to the bathroom, moving through the once-again narrow doorway. It seemed that Draco had removed all of the charms he had used previously, but it wasn’t as much of a problem to get through with the smaller Muggle chair, and he easily brushed his teeth, then went to get dressed. 

Clothes donned, Harry looked at Draco as he knotted the purple tie he’d picked, in what Harry hoped was an answer to the question he had asked in the car. Fully dressed, he moved his chair in front of the long mirror, checking his appearance and was pleasantly surprised by what he saw, especially when he couldn’t ever remember looking so… good. Draco stood just behind him, tall and handsome as Harry moved his fingers through his hair. It stuck up a bit, but it didn’t look horrible, and he smiled at the look of approval on Draco’s face, noting that they did look good together. Harry hadn’t ever really considered himself attractive, but he felt it then, and when he turned, Draco leaned forward and gave him a kiss that left his face hot and throat dry as long fingers rested at the nape of his neck for just a touch longer than usual before he pulled away.

“Are you ready?” Draco asked. 

“As I’ll ever be,” Harry replied, following Draco from the comfort of the bedroom and heading into the garden. Like a shield against the mass of gathered people, Draco walked in front of Harry, just to the side of his chair like he had in Diagon Alley, and knowing that he had Draco looking out for him, he found it easier to ignore the anxiety he felt at having to be around so many people – ones he knew and ones he didn’t know. 

It was noisy when they exited the house into the garden, and Harry moved slowly into the group, being stopped by eager former colleagues and those he considered family. Ron and Hermione were standing with Kingsley, and he began to make his way toward them, but he was stopped by at least ten different witches and wizards. After assuring them that he was fine, that Draco had discovered part of what was wrong with him, they eventually left him be, and he noted that others seemed afraid to approach. Harry didn’t mind that at all; he was perfectly content with every one of them remaining where they were and never bothering him; this party wasn’t about him. 

He finally made his way to Ron and Hermione, noting that she still seemed as strained as she had when she’d last been to the Manor, and it still grieved him to know that things weren’t as well as this party and everyone else seemed to think. For once, though, he knew he had his own problems to worry about, and unlike Ron, Harry wasn’t going to tell him how to fix his marriage or what he should do; it was Ron’s job to work that out – and if he couldn’t, then things would have to come to a head of their own accord. Ron was his best mate, but so was Hermione: he felt that he owed it to her not to spoon-feed Ron something that should have been blindingly obvious to him. Ginny had been happy with the delusion that Harry could read her mind to give her what she wanted and needed, but Harry knew that that wouldn’t do for Hermione. Not that Hermione would be deceived by a pretty illusion anyway, even if she wanted to be. It made Harry wonder if Draco had been right about their relationship being more familiar than attached, and personal compatibility being more complicated than knowing one another for ages and having been through hell together. _Maybe they aren’t meant for each other after all._

“You look good, Harry,” Hermione said, giving him a hug. 

“Thanks, you, too.” He smiled.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, concern etched into her expression.

“Fine,” he said, interrupted from reply further when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Kingsley in a set of strangely patterned robes.

“Minister,” Harry said in greeting, smiling slightly. 

“Harry, how’re you doing? Those photos in the _Prophet_ had us all a bit worried.”

Harry tried to explain what they had learned so far, but Kingsley didn’t seem to understand any more than he did, and just nodded his head diplomatically at all the right moments. There was an awkward silence between them for a few moments, then Kingsley said, “Gillick keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

The statement startled Harry for a moment, and then he remembered that while he had made his decision not to return to the Ministry, he hadn’t told anyone apart from Ron – Draco had heard him, at least he thought so, when he’d told Ron, but he hadn’t done anything to formalise it, so he looked at the Minister and decided that it was as good a first step as any. “Erm, about that, sir,” Harry began, “I… I’m pretty sure I won’t be coming back.”

Kingsley stared at him for a moment, and Harry almost wondered if he was going to try to convince him that they _needed_ him, but he didn’t; he just shook Harry’s hand and said they’d miss him, but that he understood. A few awkward moments later, the Minister left him sitting with Ron. He wasn’t sure exactly what to say. Having not seen Ron since he’d interrupted his conversation with Draco, Harry knew he needed to say something, though. 

“Look, Ron, I’m not pissed off about what happened. I, uh, know I’ve done some pretty stupid things to you and Hermione before. I don’t blame you for all this.” 

That typical red of embarrassment spread on Ron’s face and he nodded slowly, and Harry extended his hand, waiting for Ron’s large hand to take his. They’d been friends too long to let something like that come between them. Harry had endangered them countless times over the years and they had never held it against him, not really. Ron had always been generally well-intentioned and had always been a loyal friend to Harry, even if he had had his moments of being a proper arse. They were family. Ron finally took his hand and clapped him on the shoulder with a nod. “I’m going to see if ’Mione needs anything. Have some fun, mate.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry said, looking around. He told himself he wasn’t looking for Draco, but he was, and when he saw him talking seriously with Bill, he smiled affectionately.

A loud, familiar voice tore his attention away from Draco, and Harry turned just in time to avoid having his face buried in Mrs Weasley’s bosom. He wished he could pull away without seeming rude, and since he couldn’t, he hugged her back briefly, hoping it would make her stop smothering him sooner. She eventually pulled away and put both her hands on his face, her thumbs caressing his cheeks softly. It was a gesture that he would have once needed and appreciated more, but her reaction to him had suddenly been brought in sharp contrast against Narcissa, and he thought guiltily that he preferred Narcissa’s more restrained approach. 

“Harry, dear, I’ve been so worried. How are you?” 

He answered the same question for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, and tried to smile. She fussed a few moments, picking at imaginary lint on his suit and ruffling his hair in a way that he found irritated him slightly – mainly because it wasn’t Draco – and he affected as much patience as he could when he replied, “I’m fine, Mrs Weasley. Really. Draco takes good care of me.”

She appeared genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, but he knew there was no reason for her to be. He could understand her fretting – Draco _had_ let Death Eaters into Hogwarts - and realised it was reflexive in its own right, but it didn’t change the fact that he knew she was wrong on this one – that Draco was taking care of him to the best of his ability, often sacrificing his own comfort for Harry’s. “Oh, I still worry about that boy. His father was…”

“Mrs Weasley,” he interrupted as calmly as he could, feeling the need to protect Draco, “with all due respect, you don’t know anything about him.”

Mrs Weasley bristled for a moment, her face turning red. “I’m just concerned—”

“You have no reason to be,” Harry assured her, his voice firm.

“Harry, dear. We just don’t want anything to happen to you.”  
“And it won’t. He’s saved my life more than once, and deserves more respect than that,” Harry snapped, his anger starting to rise. How Molly Weasley could stand there telling him she was worried, that she didn’t trust Harry’s judgement, he didn’t know. Draco had done everything for Harry, had given up everything for Harry, even before they had become lovers, and it pissed him off that his assertions weren’t credible enough, or that just because they hadn’t seen the things going on behind closed doors that they had any right to make judgements. He understood that they had been in the dark about the situation, but they didn’t seem to trust his ability to determine whether or not he had been receiving the best care or not. All they saw was who Draco had been, and for the first time, he realised he wasn’t alone, that Draco suffered as much as he had in the public eye, just for a different reason, and it made him angry. He shouldn’t have to defend Draco; he shouldn’t have to remind people that Draco had _saved_ his bloody life! “I don’t want to hear any more. He doesn’t deserve that!” He realised he had been louder on the last part than he’d intended when Draco and Bill both turned toward him, a completely unreadable expression on his Healer’s face and one of slight shock on the elder Weasley’s.

Mr and Mrs Weasley stood silent for a long moment, then she tried to change the subject. “When Ginny… Oh! She didn’t mean to hurt you, dear; you know that, don’t you? She still loves you, Harry. We all still love you.” She took his hand and bent to gaze earnestly into his eyes. "We still want you to be part of the family, and have your own family with Gin. She wants that more than anything in the world." 

Momentarily shocked by Mrs Weasley’s statement, which seemed to have startled Mr Weasley somewhat, as well, Harry looked up, and realised in a flash of lighting-like clarity that she wanted them to reconcile – which was impossible. Not only was Harry in love with Draco, but he couldn’t see going back to a relationship that had been so ill-founded to begin with. That she seemed to have either accepted or ignored the fact that Ginny had cheated on him hurt and angered him slightly, but he couldn’t dwell on it then. He shoved the hurt and aside and stated crossly, “Mrs Weasley, Ginny and I won’t be getting back together.”

She stopped short again and Arthur took over, shaking Harry’s hand, saying he was glad he was doing well enough, and he smiled tightly in response, thankful that at least Arthur didn’t feel the need to make an already awkward situation worse. Harry knew that from an objective point of view, Mrs Weasley was doing the same thing she had always done, only it irked him that she hadn’t felt the need to call or even write the entire time he’d been ill, but now that he was physically in her vicinity, she chose to mother him. 

Mrs Prout joined them, a pleasant smile on her face. “Would you like some champagne, Harry?”

“Yes, thank you, Eleanor,” he said, exhaling softly. 

“Are you hungry?” Mrs Weasley asked, her expression full of pity and he scowled slightly, assuming that Mrs Prout’s attentiveness had prompted her sudden desire to cater to his needs.

“Mrs Prout will get my food, thanks,” he said, offering a brief smile. He didn’t want to sound ungracious; he’d always appreciated Mrs Weasley’s caring demeanour, but it felt like too much, and he attributed it to having to be around so many people when he’d rather be in bed, relaxed and comfortable – not dealing with so many questions or people wanting to take care of him because he was crippled. Draco understood it, and he wondered why no one else could.

“You look like you used to after being with those relatives of yours. You should eat more,” she clucked. 

“Mrs Prout makes sure I eat everything I need to.”

“Molly, why don’t you do see if Ron and Hermione need anything?” Arthur suggested, and she looked at him, ruffled. 

Draco made his way over about the time Mrs Prout returned, wearing what Harry had come to be able to interpret as the look that said he was about ready to start throwing people out if they didn’t stop upsetting Harry, and Harry was guiltily thankful that Draco’s approach was the cue for Mrs Weasley to leave, muttering under her breath. He rolled his eyes and accepted the flute from Mrs Prout, then turned to look at Draco, wondering if he could have any. “Is it okay?” he asked.

A nodded approval was given, and Harry asked, “Do you want some?”

Draco raised his glass of red pointedly and eyeballed Mrs Weasley, who was looking at him from Hermione’s side with obvious misgiving. Harry reached out and ran the backs of his fingers along Draco’s hand, hooking his fingers with Draco’s, in appreciation for finally getting Mrs Weasley to go away. Draco stepped away, though, and Harry looked at him in confusion, the rejection of his affection stinging. He noticed the brief twitch of Draco’s fingers before hearing, “Discretion is the better part of valour, Potter.”

He then left, and Harry, no less confused, asked his retreating back, “What’s that mean?”

Sighing, he took a sip of his champagne, then looked at Mrs Prout, whose expression was full of something he didn’t understand. “There’s a time and a place for everything, dear,” she said, then coloured brightly, clapping a hand to her mouth as she retreated, hurried and visibly flustered. 

Surprised and enchanted by her endearment, Harry’s gaze followed Mrs Prout, back into the safety of the kitchen, a slow smile spreading across his face. She was another motherly woman, he realised, and in yet another mould. Now that he came to think of it, he found that she had even begun to feel like a mother over the last months she’d been living with them and providing meals, a gentle smile when needed, unobtrusive care and, yes, even quiet, modest affection. He hadn’t even registered it consciously, but it had been there all the same, hovering unassumingly in the background and around the fringes of his existence. The warmth he’d felt at Narcissa’s farewell that morning returned. Narcissa had felt the same way, giving her affection and guidance in a completely different fashion, but she still felt like family, and it was odd to put the pieces together, to recognise that he might have just found what he’d always wanted. A lump formed in his throat, and he took another long sip of his wine, trying to wash away the emotion; he didn’t want to get his hopes up that _they_ would be his family and have something happen to change that. 

“Harry,” a familiar voice said, and he turned to see Luna in a vibrant robe with tattered edges, the selvage unwinding in strange tendrils that made it look like she had striped, puffy snakes hanging from her in a parody of Medusa’s hair. She smiled at his wistful expression and started to lean in to hug them, then abruptly stopped.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, confused.

“Draco would be angry,” she said, tilting her head to the side slightly. “He doesn’t like other people touching his things.” 

_Things. His. Touching._ The burst of those words and their meaning spread through Harry like a flash-flood of heat, confusing, but thrilling and also slightly arousing. He was subconsciously aware of the implication, and knowing that he belonged to Draco for as long as he would have him made his face flush brilliantly. 

“W-what? Luna?” His question was more out of confusion for her choice of phrasing, and once again he wondered how the hell Luna knew so much about Draco, and how she even had an inkling that things had changed between them. 

“Sometimes I don’t count, but I think I do this time. I think everyone does, this time.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, flummoxed. He turned to look for Draco and noticed he was once again talking with Bill. 

“It’s obvious.”

“How do you know so much?” Luna smiled beatifically, and his brow furrowed. “About Draco?

“That’s obvious, too.”

“Not to me,” he said in irritation. He really wished Luna would stop trying to make him navigate a mental labyrinth to get the answer he wanted. 

With a dreamy smile, she leaned in confidentially, maintaining her distance. “You should probably know that he really doesn’t like it when you suck that nipple. It hurts, you see. It bleeds if you bite it, too. It never healed properly.”

“Damn it, Luna, just tell me what the hell you’re on about!”

She smiled. “When Draco was training, we were lovers. Before I met Rolf.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t important,” she said with a shrug. “It is now.”

“H-how?” Harry shook his head. “What else don’t I know?”

“He likes the back of his balls to be sucked on, and his prostate isn’t very sensitive,” she replied airily.

“Luna!” Harry shouted, his face flushing brilliantly as people turned in his direction, and he lowered his voice again. “I didn’t mean that! Merlin! Do you know how weird it is to hear that from you?”

“It’s true. You have nothing to worry about. He’s yours, Harry. And you’re his. The pieces are starting to rebuild, slowly, but you’re both starting to come together. You’ll be beautiful.” She tilted her head to the side, a dreamy expression on her face as the allusion to pottery and _Reparo_ surfaced in his thoughts at her statement.

“I- I…” Harry sighed. “I can’t beli—”

“Hello, Harry,” another familiar voice, one he had begun to hope he wouldn’t hear that evening, said. He looked at Ginny. There was nothing. He felt absolutely nothing. He didn’t say anything; instead, he looked at her oddly for a moment, trying to decide if it was a good or a bad thing that seeing her only roused a brief, half-hearted flicker of contempt, and that only when he actually stopped to think about it, and realised it was probably a good thing that he felt nothing at seeing her. Stupidly, she urged Luna away.

The pregnant silence between them was thick, heavy, with the feeling of expectation, and he flickered a brief, unenthusiastic smile as he finished his champagne and placed the glass on the table next to him. “Hello, Ginny,” he said finally.

“It’s good to see you,” she said with a saccharine tone that he’d heard often, one that used to bring a smile to his face. He realised it made him slightly ill to hear it then. “You’re looking good – apart from… well, you know.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he replied dismissively, wondering what he had ever seen in her to begin with. Sure, she had been attractive enough, but he realised they had never really understood each other. 

“How are you doing? I mean, Malfoy hasn’t tried to kill you yet, has he?”

Harry scowled again and refused to look at her. “No. He’s found one of the causes for what’s wrong, but there’s something warping it, some other curse or spell, so it’s taking longer to find the cure.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, Harry,” she said, the same ridiculously sweet tone grating his ears. He looked up for a moment, his expression flat as he watched her twirl her hair slightly with a sway to her hips that had once been suggestive and arousing, now it just made him feel uncomfortable. 

Harry looked around, scanning the crowd as he said, “He’ll work it out.”

“I hope so,” she said. “I miss you.” She placed her hand on top of Harry’s and all he could do was pull away, the touch feeling toxic and _wrong_. He moved his hand to his lap, clasping them together. 

Not trusting his voice, Harry chose to ignore her statement and looked around the gathered witches and wizards. Mrs Prout was bringing him another glass of champagne, and he was grateful for her interference. He said his thanks as she walked away again, and Ginny still stood before him.

She leaned forward and gave him an awkward kiss, her lips lingering on his longer than he found entirely comfortable. It felt wrong and distant, and made him pull away quickly, only he couldn’t go anywhere. 

“Ginny, that’s… inappropriate,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips as he used the same line Draco had often used on him. He took a long sip of his wine to keep from having to reply or have her kiss him again, thankful that the rich flavour washed away the residue of her lips against his. 

“Oh, Harry, I’ve missed you,” she sighed. “I can’t tell you how much. I’m so sorry I hurt you,” she added sorrowfully, placing her hand in his lap. She began to rub his leg suggestively. “I’m sorry. I was selfish, and you didn’t deserve what I did. It was always you I loved. I’ve never loved anybody else. I was so stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking; I never wanted anybody but you, not really. I want to make it up to you.”

Harry caught her wrist and pushed her hand away. “Don’t, Ginny. I’ve talked to Neville; I know exactly what happened.” 

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, and she actually looked as if she might mean it. It didn’t matter to him if she did, though: he’d stopped caring, and the only thing on his mind was getting her off him and finding Draco. Her hand was back on his leg, higher this time, and he recognised with a faint shock of nausea that she was trying to arouse him. 

“I’ve loved you since I was a little girl.” Her free hand came up to his face, despite his attempt to bat it away, and her fingers caught his jaw, turning his head so that he had to look at her or shut his eyes like a child. Her wide brown eyes gazed into his with the melting expression that would have made any argument evaporate once upon a time. “I love you, Harry. I don’t know why I did it, but I wish I hadn’t. I just want you back.” The hand wandering over his inner thigh and balls settled firmly on his cock. “Let me show you how much. Let me make it up to you.”

“No!” Harry said firmly, holding up his hands to fend off her advances. “Get off me. I don’t want you to make it up to me; I just want you to leave me alone.” Harry pressed the power on his chair and tried to back up, but there was a table and chairs around him, so he couldn’t go anywhere. There was a _clink_ as glasses, silverware, and plates were shifted on the table. 

Her expression was stunned as her hand stopped moving, noticing that there was no hint of arousal. “But you always… Has everything stopped working?” she asked incredulously, but she wasn’t able to get the rest of what she wanted to say out; he saw Draco behind her, his hand in her hair, gripping it tightly. Ginny cried out, and Draco’s lip curled. His voice was venomous enough to chill Harry to the core when he hissed, “If I ever catch you anywhere near him again, you stupid ginger cunt, I will rip your fucking spine out and strangle you with it.” 

Harry watched stupefied as Draco frog-marched her away from him, her hands grasping at Draco’s as he dragged her into the house. Bill followed behind in a hurry, and before he could see what else was going on, Arthur, who apparently hadn’t seen a thing, called everyone’s attention. 

Looking toward the centre of the gathering, Harry tried to forget what had just happened. He didn’t want to dwell on it, and he hoped that Draco hadn’t thought he had willingly kissed her; one of the unfortunate drawbacks of his condition was that he was quite helpless if someone wanted to corner him, and he couldn’t believe he’d let Ginny get that close. 

Further consideration ended when Ron and Hermione stood in the middle with Arthur and Molly, and both of her parents were there as well. He finished his champagne when everyone toasted their congratulations for Ron and Hermione’s first child, and he sat in a daze as people fluttered by, a few he didn’t know knocking his chair as they carelessly weren’t paying attention, offering apologies when they realised they had hit him.

The applause finally died, and Harry began searching the crowd for Draco, for Luna, and he couldn’t even see Mrs Prout. A sinking feeling began in his stomach, only growing worse as the minutes passed and he remained alone. He couldn’t keep sitting there alone, and as he shifted his chair to go back in the house, he saw Draco walking toward him, his expression disconcerting. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked before Draco could properly close the distance.

“We have to return to the Manor immediately,” Draco said, and Harry recognised the clipped, sharp tone with a wave of dread. “Weasley will explain. I've... identified part of the problem. And it can be dealt with.” Harry’s fingers began to tingle slightly. “Mrs Prout is packing your things, and a car is on the way. I'm Apparating ahead.”

Elation, relief, began to sweep over Harry like a spring breeze and he said, “Okay.” Then, realising he had no idea which Weasley Draco was referring to, asked, “Which Weasley?”

“Bill. He... was on the spot when...” Draco’s mouth twisted slightly, “…the discovery was made. He knows what he's doing. I trust him.”

Harry didn’t know how to reply, so he just nodded, his expression hopeful. He was also scared without any knowledge of what was going on, but he trusted Draco, so he didn’t question him. 

“We’ll be ready as soon as you get in. Mrs Prout will bring you through. Lovegood will tell Granger and Weasley when we’ve gone.”

“All right,” Harry said, seeing that slight twitch of Draco’s fingers again before he left. 

To Be Continued…


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: With Valour Comes Suffering**

Events began to take on a stop-motion quality for Harry as he sat waiting, thoughts in a haze of hope and fear. His heart beat a painful rhythm, erratic, a pulse in his throat that felt like he might swallow it, choke on the heavy thudding. No one else seemed to notice that anything was going on, and Harry was thankful for that. Luna stood with him, her voice low and steady as she tried to assure him that everything would be all right, but Harry wasn’t listening. He couldn’t.

After some indeterminable amount of time had passed, Bill came to fetch him, and he followed him through the house, his hands shaking slightly against the control stick of his chair. It was awkward to feel someone other than Draco lifting him, making sure he was comfortable, and as they settled, the gate closing behind the MPV, Harry looked at Bill, his voice unsteady as he asked, “What’s going on, Bill?”

“What’s Malfoy told you?” he asked, his own tone tight, eyes blazing with carefully controlled anger.

“Nothing apart from he’s identified part of the problem. He didn't say what, though.”

Bill nodded, his expression hard to interpret; there was a mixture of feelings that Harry couldn’t place. “It’s a spell. But I suppose you knew that, yeah?” Harry nodded. “The thing that's affected _Malleus Mentis._ ”

“What sort of spell? And why did he have to go on ahead?” 

Drawing a steadying breath, Bill said, “Because it’s best if it’s taken off by the person who cast it. And that was Gin.” Harry’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. “He’s taken her ahead. And I hope he's putting the fear of fucking god up her.” 

Harry’s jaw ached, his teeth grinding together as anger and incredulity consumed him. “Gi—? What did she do?” he asked, his voice low, tight. 

“Not completely sure. Close as we can tell, it’s a sort of Cuckolding Charm. It seems to be derived from the same root as Confundus.” 

“Why would she--?” Harry shook his head, his jaw dropping, then closing again as words refused to come. There was a dull pain in his palm and he relaxed his hand and looked at Bill expectantly.

“She says she found it in some old diary, or something. It makes... fuck, Harry, I’m sorry. It makes the person it’s cast on, your lover, more... amenable. Less inclined to argue or get pissed off by stuff you do. Less likely to notice that stuff like Confundus has been used on them. Sounds like she’s been mucking about with your head for a couple of years. Memory charms, Confundus, stuff like that. She swears it’s nothing big.”

“Why? Why would she do that?” Harry snapped. He closed his eyes, an attempt to protect himself from the reality of the situation. 

“Nev wasn’t the first bloke she shagged on the side. I swear to Merlin, Harry, if I’d had any idea...!” Bill stopped, clenching and unclenching his fists in his lap, and he continued, “But it's been going on for a while. And this charm, whatever it actually is, helped her keep you from finding out.” He paused, then added, as if in grudging mitigation, “She says that’s not _why_ she used it in the first place, though. She wanted to go out more, and you didn’t. She said you were getting stubborn and rowing, and this spell was supposed to make you more open to seeing things her way. And then it… got bigger.”

 _Wasn’t the first bloke..._ A ragged inhale filled the silence as Harry clenched his jaw. “I don’t want to know who else. I don’t care.” And he didn’t. But he did need clarification on something Bill had said. “She has to remove the spell?”

“We reckon it’s safest and most effective if she does, yeah. It’s keyed to her. As soon as Malfoy’s done with her, I’m going to be dragging her straight home. Fleur can look after her while I get Mum.”

“What else does it affect?” Harry asked, ignoring the rest of what Bill had said. He honestly didn’t care what happened to Ginny.

“Just your mind.” Bill snorted, no hint of amusement. “Hah! I say ‘just’. Nothing physical, I meant. But it masks magic, you see. That’s why _Malleus Mentis_ changed. She’s hidden Memory Charms and stuff under it for years.” He stopped for a moment and looked at Harry. “What beats both of us is why the curse still moved so slowly. _Malleus Mentis_ rips your mind apart in weeks. Warping it to affect your body might affect its progression, but not this much. Malfoy reckons - and I reckon he’s right - that there’s something else there, too. But we need to get these two out of the way to find it.”

“This is—” He shook his head. “If she fucks up, Draco’s going to kill her. You know that, don’t you?” Harry knew he would. The memory of what Draco had done to Rita Skeeter was still very vivid in his mind, and _she_ hadn’t actually harmed him. 

“If he doesn’t, I might.” Bill looked quite scary as he said the words. “Ron might anyway, if Mum doesn’t, even if she _doesn’t_ fuck up the removal.”

Trying to wrap his mind around everything, Harry tipped his head back against the seat, his thoughts coming in flashes – violent, angry, muddied from champagne. There was sharp pain that accompanied the realisation of Ginny’s actions, and Harry closed his eyes, wishing it was all just a nightmare.

“I’m sorry, mate. I had no idea. I’m a fucking curse-breaker, and I didn't even see that right under my nose. Merlin knows what Ron’ll say. Or do.”

“Not your fault. Ron’ll probably think Draco’s lying. Doesn’t matter, though. If she hadn’t done it—” _Draco and I wouldn’t be together_ died on his tongue.

“Oh, he’ll believe it alright. He won't argue with _me_.” Bill stopped, and Harry looked up to narrowed blue eyes. “That’s a good bloke you’ve got there. A lot like Fleur, I reckon.”

Startled at as much at the notion of ‘having a good bloke’ as at Bill’s perception, Harry asked, “What do you mean?”

Bill smiled. “Oh, come on, mate! It couldn’t be more obvious if you wore a sign around your neck. I've spent quite a lot of time with him this last couple of days. Decent bloke, when you get past the fact he’d rather not be having to deal with you. Not as a personal thing, obviously.” Bill grinned, then. “Quite generous about it, really. He doesn’t mind Weasleys existing, he just wishes we’d do it somewhere else. He’ll get used to us sooner or later.”

Red crept up Harry’s cheeks in response. “Just, keep it quiet, yeah? I don’t think anyone else knows. Not really. And don’t tell your mum and dad. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

Rich laughter filled the Muggle car. “It’s not him I’d be worried about. He was about ready to eviscerate someone, I reckon.”

“Yeah, but your mum won’t keep quiet, and if something happens to me, they’ll chuck him back in Azkaban without a fair trial, and he doesn’t deserve that. Not after everything he’s done for me.”

Bill snorted in amusement. “As soon as Mum finds out what Gin did, and that it was Malfoy who spotted it, he’ll be her favourite ex-Death Eater ever. It’s that Prout woman you need to watch her with." Bill eyed Harry speculatively. “You know, it’s the oddest thing. George reckons Rita Skeeter hasn’t been seen since that day you went to the shop.”

“No, I reckon she wouldn't have been, with what Draco did when I woke up and she was in my room.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bill asked, his eyebrows raised. 

“I got worse that day. Drank the wrong water, and she changed into the beetle and just waited. Followed us to the Manor and everything. I woke up after, and she was in my room. Draco... took care of it. She’s alive. Just... fuck, Bill, you should have seen him. He was ready to murder her.”

Alarmed, Bill asked, “He didn’t, did he?”

“No. I still don’t know what he did. Just that she can’t... find the Manor. She doesn’t really remember what happened. He said if she says another word about me... it’s nasty. I can’t even remember all of it.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? You want me to try digging her out, see if it’s anything I can untangle? Or just leave her to deal with it herself?”

“Just leave her. I prefer her not being able to print anything about me. Let her bother someone else. I’m sure she’ll have fun with Ginny.”

Bill snorted in amusement again. “Yeah, if Malfoy and Fleur leave enough of her standing.” He shook his head. “I’m not surprised they hooked up.”

“What?” Harry asked, shocked.

“What?” Bill replied, confused.

“Draco and Fleur?” Harry choked. 

“Uh, yeah. Triwizard year. They... had a bit of a thing for a while. Something to do with concentrating power through similar kinds of magic, she said: I reckon she was trying to get a bit of a leg-up, being at the bottom of the pile, and thought he might be compatible. Well, he’s blond enough, isn’t he? And he looks as if there could be a beak in him somewhere. I was glad she couldn’t come today, actually, I have to admit.”

“Why’s that?” Harry asked, almost an automatic response in his astonishment.

“Veela, remember?”

“She never bothered me...” Harry said. 

“That was before you were allergic to magic: no telling what being in the same room as her would do to you now. And, anyway, she never tried attracting you. But she’s sentimental. And he was her first, even if he didn’t turn out to be part-Veela,” Bill clarified. 

“Draco and Fleur, Draco and Luna. Merlin, who else has he shagged?”

“I don’t know. Not me, if that’s any help." Bill grinned at Harry’s expression. “Does it matter? Point is, he’s not shagging any of them _now_.”

“Me either,” Harry added, almost to himself. “Not yet, anyway.”

Bill held his hands up. “More information than I wanted, mate.”

Harry chuckled slightly, suitably distracted for the moment, Bill answering him with a smile.

“He said you’d probably want to go to sleep. Said I should tell you to if you don’t. He reckons you’ll need to be rested.”

Harry ignored the warning in his bones that Bill was hiding something else from him, and instead smiled fondly, unsure if he’d ever get used to the level of care Draco provided. “Yeah. Thanks, Bill.”

“Hey, no worries. Least I can do. You just... do whatever, and I’ll wake you up when we hit the Manor.”

“Okay,” Harry said, tipping his head back, no less anxious or scared than he had been. There was anger there, loads of it, but the hope, more than anything, overshadowed those feelings; he could deal with them later – if Draco didn’t deal with the source first. The one thing he hadn’t really thought about yet, that had him curious, made Harry look up and address Bill again. “How did he find out? About what Ginny did?”

Bill shifted in his seat. “Oh, when he took her in the house, she was pissed off as hell. Of course, I was, too, until he started asking her questions and she went white as a bloody ghost. I reckon he saw something when Gin was talking to you: he said something about her being _too_ surprised, and too sure of herself – she was going on about getting you back, see, when he asked her what the fuck she thought she was playing at. We dragged the story out of her, and he rang for a taxi and took her to the Manor.”

“Rang?”

“He’s got a Muggle mobile. Bloody silly thing if you ask me, but… Anyway, you should rest. Don't want to bring the Wrath of Malfoy down on us, now, do we?”

Harry nodded and leaned his head back again, closing his eyes. Wiltshire was still a long way from Ropley, and with everything, he was finding it hard to remain in control.

**~*~*~*~**

Harry was startled awake by someone shaking his shoulder, and he blinked rapidly as he looked around, Bill’s face coming into focus as he oriented himself to his surroundings. He was still sitting in the MPV, and they were at the Manor. 

“You ready, mate?” Bill asked.

“S’ppose,” Harry replied, still muzzy from sleep and champagne. 

“Let me get you out of the car, then.”

Bill lifted his chair, and then he noticed Draco approaching. “Where’s Ginny?” Bill asked.

“With my mother,” Draco replied with a chilling smile. “I’ll take care of Potter, Weasley. Mrs Prout will show you to your sister.”

That Draco had met him outside the house was comforting, especially when he’d said Mrs Prout would show him in when they arrived. He tried to smile, but his apprehension was beginning to get the best of him. He held on as Draco lifted him and carried him up the stairs, placing him in his chair once they were inside the house. The corridor was silent, the whole situation giving the dread he’d felt since before they’d left Hightrees room to resurface and grow. 

“What did he tell you?” Draco asked. 

“Gin used some spell that’s like a Confundus Charm. Something she found in a diary somewhere. Something that would keep me from asking questions.”

Draco nodded curtly, and Harry could see how angry he was. “You’d have thought she’d have learned the folly of trusting strange diaries, after what my father did to her.”

“Some people never learn,” Harry added, mostly to himself. He was having enough trouble keeping himself under control, and knowing that he was going to have to allow Ginny to point her wand at him and remove whatever spell she had cast wasn’t sitting right with him. He trusted Draco, but he did not trust Ginny, and the most recent discovery of a betrayal worse than her infidelity had him torn between anger and fear. “What’s going to happen?”

“Two things. Ginevra is going to remove the c— charm.” Harry noted the hitch in Draco’s phrasing. “But before she does that, with your permission, Weasley is going to attempt a... scan, of sorts. Something he uses in his line of work that enables him to see any and all magics at work on the target object. This is going to have a detrimental effect on you anyway; it seems to me that we might as well confirm that there’s nothing else confusing matters.”

“Won’t that…” Harry inhaled deeply, not wanting to remember how badly it had hurt when he’d drunk the water in Diagon Alley, or the first few times he’d collapsed from magic used on him. “What will happen to me when he does that?”

“You remember what happened as we left Diagon Alley?” Draco asked, and Harry nodded silently. “This will be much the same, I anticipate. But you know that nobody else has ever had this condition. I’d be lying to you if I said that I can predict the effects absolutely.” Heavily exhaling, Harry began to pick at his fingers. “It will be... nasty. But then, with this charm out of the way, once you’re sufficiently stabilised, Weasley and I should be able to remove the warped _Malleus Mentis_. And once that’s removed, your deterioration will cease completely, and you’ll be able to begin to recover.”

 _Trust him,_ Harry’s mind prodded, and the solid weight of a decision he didn’t want to make began to press against him. His throat began to feel tight, and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, all of them seemingly chased away by his fear. _Draco isn’t going to let her harm you._ “I… all right,” he replied tightly. 

“We’ve been liaising quite closely. There is no other curse quite like it, but between my medical knowledge and his knowledge of curses, we’re close to producing a counter-curse. There are some promising results on some of the more advanced models.”

Harry nodded almost mechanically, afraid his voice would betray how torn he really was. His hands felt almost numb, and he just wanted to get away from it all.

“I know this isn’t easy for you to choose to do. No sane man would elect to put himself through this needlessly, but there’s nothing else we can do. We can’t remove it in one, because until this cu— _charm_ of Ginevra Weasley’s is out of the way, the waters remain muddied. And Weasley’s diagnostic spell will at least confirm that we don’t need to be worrying about anything else as well. I don't believe that we do, but I’d be an idiot to decline to confirm that.”

Nodding, Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably. He didn’t want to risk saying anything that would hurt Draco.

“I don’t want to leave anything dormant in your system that might come back to bite us in a year’s time.” In the darkness, there was still some light of hope, a small phrasing that caught Harry’s attention, giving him something to look forward to. _To bite us…_. It was such a simple choice of words, but like many of the things Draco said, he almost felt like there was more meaning in it than would ever be readily admitted. “You’ve been through more than enough for one lifetime. But we _are_ on the downward slope now, Potter. I’d stake my mother’s life on it.”

Refraining from saying that Draco _was_ staking Harry’s life on it, he inhaled and nodded again, reminding himself that Draco knew what he was doing, that he’d do whatever needed to be done for Harry. 

“The magic will be performed in the small ante-room. When Weasley’s ready and has his sister ready, I’ll lower the quarantine wards in that room only. You may feel the effects of the magic immediately. We’ll move quickly. I’ll have you out of there and in your own bed as fast as I can. Weasley and my mother will deal with Ginevra.” 

It wasn’t hard to hear the note of satisfaction that rose in Draco’s voice when he mentioned Narcissa dealing with Ginny, and Harry couldn’t find it in himself to care what happened to her, even equipped with the knowledge that – thanks to Narcissa Malfoy’s involvement – it would almost certainly be hellish. 

Silence stretched on. Words couldn’t adequately express the fear or remind Draco that he trusted him or anything, really, so he let the sounds of their movement toward the western wing keep him distracted. There was no point in trying to articulate how he felt; he’d just bollocks it up and see that fucking flare of Draco’s nostrils, and he didn’t want that. 

“If there were any other way of doing this...” Draco said.

“I know,” Harry whispered. If he spoke any louder, everything he was feeling would spill out, leave a stain against him. He inhaled and looked at Draco as the door to the ante-room was opened before him, and noticed that knuckles of the hand holding his wand were white.

They stopped in the middle of the room, and Draco waved his wand in an intricate pattern, modifying the wards around them. Harry didn’t feel anything, much to his appreciation, and he tried to steady his nerves, surprised by Draco leaning in to lift him from his chair. His thoughts were racing, but the one thing he felt he _had_ to say couldn’t go left unsaid. “Wait,” he breathed and reached out, taking Draco’s wrist before he could be lifted from his chair. 

Draco paused, looked at Harry’s face, and dropped to his knees. There were so many things Harry wanted to say, so many things he wished he could give voice to that would somehow make Draco understand that no matter what, he trusted him, believed him, and loved him. He swallowed hard and bit his lip, finally finding his voice as his gaze connected with Draco’s. “If anything happens, if this goes wrong, I don’t blame you. And I don’t want you to blame yourself, either. I know you’re doing what you can.”

If Harry thought he had seen all of Draco’s expressions and tells, he was wrong; the response that met his words was confusing. “You’re going to be fine, Potter.”

“I-I’m scared,” Harry admitted nervously, a faint smile accompanying his words. “I trust you.” _I love you._ Reaching out with a trembling hand, he ran his thumb along Draco’s cheek. 

“Good. You will be fine. The next few days will be horrible, but you’re going to recover.”

Harry dropped his hand to the one still on his knee, needing that security for as long as possible. Leaning forward, as Draco tilted his head toward Harry, he pressed his lips against Draco’s, giving to him everything he couldn’t say. The first lingering kiss was a reminder of his trust, then as he parted his lips, needing to express more, his tongue curled against Draco’s, the gentle response making his heart beat quickly. Every movement of his tongue against Draco’s was a hope, a promise, a declaration of his feelings, and he reached out, cupping Draco’s face between his hands as he continued to show what he couldn’t tell. For those moments, he was able to forget what was about to happen, about the pain that was coming, about the betrayal – because all of those things had brought him to that point, had given him something he’d always wanted, but never been able to find. His chest was tight with the lack of oxygen, and he reluctantly pulled away, resting his forehead against Draco’s. 

“I’m ready,” he whispered, releasing his weak hold as Draco nodded. 

“Mrs Prout!” Draco called, and he lifted Harry from his chair. Harry was completely secure, and no matter what happened, he hoped Draco understood him, what he believed they were and could be, and instead of turning toward the door when it opened, he kept his gaze fixed on Draco, his arms holding as tightly as he was able. Expressionless features morphed into a deep scowl. A moment’s fear for Ginny ran through Harry as Bill incanted a spell, and all thoughts were replaced by a pain unlike he’d ever felt before. A cry stopped in his throat. Arms released their hold and consciousness slipped away as the heat of magic flowed through his veins, setting him on fire from the inside out. 

Time was no longer measurable in seconds or minutes; it just was – a shifting, twisting thing Harry had absolutely no concept of as each agonising moment consumed him. He felt his body being moved, and then there was nothing left but the pain – nerve ends being flayed raw with sensation. 

Darkness swallowed him eventually, but he could still feel everything in blinding flashes, deafening sounds that he couldn’t make out, and finally he slipped away – no longer able to handle the suffering.

**~*~*~*~**

_Just put it over there… fine… no, that wouldn’t… taken her home… do a thing… boil his head, for all I… alone… tell you when…_

The brief snatches of sound that Harry heard were entirely too loud. Each word had a piercing quality that penetrated his ears, making it hard to think. He didn’t know how much time passed between each word spoken. 

_…rry._

There was a burning sensation in his throat as a whimper vibrated, and he was finally able to part his lips, spilling the sound into the room. His entire body hurt, felt like he had been pummelled and his skin was permanently bruised. It took effort to move his fingers when he heard Draco’s voice close by, and he whimpered again as his arm was moved, and he heard Draco’s voice, too loud, too harsh for his ears, as a sharp, invasive pain accompanied a prick in his skin. There was a flood of something he couldn’t feel apart from pressure and then a light tingling that soothed some of the burning, seemed to stop the feeling of wire wool grinding against his skin. It was still there, just not nearly as overwhelming as it had been.

Harry’s senses blurred, then what felt like clouds hiding a summer sun gave him a brief reprieve from the inundation of the Fiendfyre that he felt like had ripped through him. He kept his eyes closed, feeling the weight of something on his chest, his breathing upsetting whatever it was, causing his clothes to chafe painfully against his skin. He tried to control his breathing, anything to keep from having to feel the mounting pressure as he became more aware. 

A whimper from his own mouth stung his ears, his head, and he tried to move, but he ached all over. 

“D-D-raco?” he queried in a harsh whisper, his voice like footfalls against gravel, afraid that if he spoke any louder, his head would split in two.

There was movement beside him, then arms wrapped around him, and as much as he wanted them there, it hurt too much. The hiss that escaped his lips forced Draco away as though he had just used a Blasting Curse, and he murmured, “Tell me what you need, Potter.”

“Hurts,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “Clothes. Feels… burning.”

“Do you want them off?” Draco asked, his voice still soft. He was relieved that Draco was there, that Draco seemed to understand about noise, at least. 

“Please.” He inhaled slowly. The weight that had been on top of him was moved, and all he could do was whimper in response to the feeling of gentle yet almost unbearably rough hands removing the cloth that felt like it had been scrubbing his skin. 

He gasped when Draco lifted him slightly to remove his shirt, and hissed as he was slowly lowered back to the bed, feeling better, but still highly uncomfortable. 

“Wha’ happen’?”

“She removed the spell. You’re reacting to the magic.”

“Why’s … hurt so…?”

“I don’t know. It seems to hit you harder each time you have a reaction.”

“’s it over?”

“The worst of it seems to be.”

“Too bright. Hurts.”

“The curtains are closed. I can’t make it any darker.”

“Head hurts.”

“How bad is it? If you can’t tolerate it as it is now, I may have to keep you unconscious for a while.” 

“Like… before.” He inhaled to steady his own trembling whispers. “Wh’ can’t… I move?”

“It's just the after-effect of the magic reaction.”

Harry whimpered in response, unable to do anything, to hide from the coruscating light that made his head hurt worse.

“It’ll ease soon.”

With no idea what Draco had done to give him the chance to speak with him, to know he was in fact still alive, Harry was able to think a bit clearer than he had when he’d just been a breathing pile of pain. He felt like a wet rag against the bed, every little movement making him prickle with discomfort, and while he knew Draco was doing all he could, he couldn’t help the near-silent plea that came. “Make it stop.” He felt the cool trail against his face as tears welled in his closed eyes and rolled down his cheek. 

“I can’t, Harry. I’m sorry.”

Controlled breaths. In. Out. Slowly. A soothing hand stroked his hair gently, and he felt some of the tension easing little by little, even if it still hurt like hell. 

“’ve… you slept?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“Yes. Just rest.”

Harry tried not to whimper again, but that’s all he could do. “Who was here?” He remembered hearing people talking, just not what they had said, and he didn’t want to go back to sleep just yet. 

“When? Mrs Prout has been in, and my mother. And Lovegood. But nobody else.”

“How long—? Was I out?”

“The longest solid stretch was about eighteen hours.” Harry couldn’t remember having woken up for longer than a few seconds at a time, but he must have, because he wasn’t hungry, and he felt like he’d eaten something. Curiosity about whether he had been fed at some point skittered through his thoughts, but he decided he didn’t care. He was just glad Draco was there, that he was alive, even if part of him wished he was dead. 

“Ron and H’rmione.” _I bet they’re pissed off._ He probably would have chuckled at the absurdity of his thoughts if he didn’t hurt so badly.

“They understand. Weasley promised to explain, and Lovegood assures me that he did.”

It was a relief that Draco seemed to infer what Harry wanted to say just from the few words that made it out. Keeping any train of thought was hard enough: they were all like driftwood in a current, flowing away from him, and he didn’t have the energy to reach out and get them. Speaking was just as difficult – a simple action made more difficult by numb lips. 

“How long’ve you… been here?” 

“All along.” The words were firm, without hesitation – what Harry had come to learn was a reassurance.

“In tha’ chair?”

“Mostly.”

Harry grunted his disapproval and regretted it immediately. 

“Are you in discomfort?”

Instead of trying to wade against the flow of his thoughts, he moved with them, and held on, needing to assuage the worry he heard in Draco’s voice. He was in discomfort, but he was more worried about Draco and whether he had been resting, taking care of himself, when he’d already been running himself ragged anyway, and Harry couldn’t stand the thought that he was responsible for any loss of sleep, loss of comfort. Sacrificing Draco’s wellbeing was not an option as far as he was concerned. He didn’t want any doubt about his desire for his Healer, his lover, his Draco, to be just as rested, comfortable, as he was. _Yes. I don’t like you not taking care of yourself, too._ “Don’t like… you… in the… chair.”

“The chair is fine, Potter. I’ve slept in far worse. And I’d much rather be here than not, at the moment.”

“Mmm. Here. ’th me.” _Sleep with me. I don’t care how badly it hurts, just stay close by._

“I am.”

“No. Not… tha’ chair,” Harry clarified laboriously. Speaking demanded energy he simply didn’t have, and made his throat, lips and tongue feel as if they were being sandpapered. “Sleep ’n bed wi’ me.”

“No. Don’t argue with me, please.”

“Bed.” Harry insisted, with all the stubbornness he could muster, even though his throat was starting to feel blistered and the effort of concentrating was making his brain seem to throb against a skull that felt several sizes too small. _If you’re going to be here anyway, you should be comfortable._

“Just rest, Potter. Argue with me tomorrow.”

As much as Harry wanted to continue trying to get Draco in bed with him, he refrained from arguing, realising, courtesy of whatever Draco had given him, that his bladder wasn’t going to be able to hold whatever was left in it. That gave him a burst of energy and focus.

“Need m’ottle.”

“All right.” Harry twitched his fingers, but couldn’t move. “No, hold on. You’d better let me help you.”

And Harry let him. It was the first time he could remember actively disliking Draco’s hand on his cock as gentle but unbearably rough fingers held him steady to piss, with an effort, into the bottle, and it hurt just as much as everything else, all of his muscles protesting. Eventually he was able to empty his bladder, the acrid scent irritating his senses further. 

Draco moved away, his steps like drums in Harry’s head, and when he thought he was going to be left alone, he whispered, “Draco? Stay ’til ’m ‘sleep.”

“Of course I will. I’m not going anywhere,” came the hushed reply.

“’nk you.”

“Just sleep.”

**~*~*~*~**

Awareness slowly spread through Harry, and he moaned softly, the shafts of sunlight making his brain prickle ominously. “Too brigh’,” he muttered, unable to bring his hands to his face to shield his tired eyes.

“I know. I know, I’m sorry. I can’t do anything about it. The curtains are closed.” 

Harry smiled faintly at Draco’s voice. “Morning.”

“Early afternoon, actually,” Draco replied, the affection in his tone warm. “How do you feel?”

“Hungry. Everything hurts. You?” It was the truth. Everything did hurt, but his thoughts weren’t as scattered as they had been, and that, he thought, was fine with him. He wanted to be able to talk with Draco, even if it took a lot of effort on his part.

“I’m fine. What would you like to eat?”

“Anything. Something cold,” Harry said, his body still feeling like it was burning from the inside out. 

“All right. I’ll only be a moment.”

The door opened and closed, time passing slowly as he waited for Draco to return. The way his head felt, he wasn’t sure keeping his eyes closed would be any different than if he was awake, and he wanted to see Draco, so he slowly opened his eyes, blinking a few times to adjust to the pressing sensation that followed. His eyelids snapped closed again, and he found that it was no different, pain wise, so he slowly let himself adjust to the ambient lambency of the room.

The door opened again, and Draco returned. Harry squinted to see him, noticing he was wearing the same thing from the anniversary party. “You’re still wearing the same… clothes.”

“I didn’t like to leave you.”

Harry frowned as much as he could. “You have to take care of yourself, too.”

“I’m fine.”

Harry knew he wasn’t, though. He could see it in the dark, bruise-like rings under Draco’s eyes, and the stiff gait. Harry shuddered slightly, whimpering as his muscles jerked in response to the wave of cold that moved through him, settling on top of the heat, his teeth chattering slightly. The brief comfort he’d had was rapidly beginning to fade.

Draco frowned and reached out to test Harry’s temperature. His hand against Harry’s forehead was heavy and uncomfortable. “Potter, you idiot, you’re freezing! Why didn’t you say something?”

“I feel like I’m burning up, but I’m cold. And the covers hurt. Feels like it’s peeling off my skin.”

Draco frowned again. “Did this happen last time?”

“N-no. Wh-why?”

“Because your reaction seems to be different as well as more severe.” He stopped and shook his head sharply. “I need to get your temperature sorted out; I need to fetch some things. I’ll be less than a minute.”

Draco disappeared again, and when he returned, Harry could hear him messing with something, but he couldn’t turn his head to look. 

“Try not to bite this,” Draco said, placing a thermometer in Harry’s mouth. He waited, feeling the uncomfortable press of the silver tip in the bottom part of his mouth, then it was finally removed. “Potter, you’re far too cold. I know you feel hot, but you’re not. Your temperature’s unsafe. I’m going to have to warm you up.”

“H-how?”

“A blanket is the usual first step.”

“It hurts,” Harry complained pre-emptively. He knew what it was going to feel like when the duvet was spread over him again.

“I know. I’m sorry. I have to do something, though.”

The weight of the duvet moved over Harry, and he hissed at the discomfort of the usually soft fabric against his skin. The feeling of broken glass raking his skin was growing increasingly uncomfortable, and with it his headache, which had only felt like a negligible buzz, began to throb. Thoughts were becoming fleeting again – wisps of smoke that he could only see faint traces of before they disappeared again.

Harry tried to move away from it, but he couldn’t go anywhere. He tried to lift his hand, shove it away. “No, no. Keep it, Harry. You have to keep it on. Lie still for me, please.”

Stopped by his name, Harry ceased moving, at least until the shock wore off, the feeling of pin pricks all over his body. The duvet felt insanely heavy, as if it were filled with lumps of lead rather than finest goose-down, and chafed as if it were sacking instead of the soft cotton he knew it to be. “It hurts.”

“I know. I know it does. But I need to get you warm.”

“Hurts,” Harry moaned, his voice low. 

“I know. How bad is it? Do you need me to get you something for the pain?”

“Please. Draco, it hurts.”

“All right. All right, Potter. I'll get you something for it. Mrs Prout will sit with you while I'm gone, all right? She’ll help you eat something.”

Harry drifted off when Draco left, trapped in his uncooperative body under the stifling weight of the cover Draco had drawn over him. The door opened sometime later, and he was slightly disoriented when Mrs Prout was sitting next to the bed and not Draco, but she assured him he was fine, that Mr Malfoy would be back soon. At her insistence, and to his extreme discomfort, he was turned on his side, the duvet-cover tearing at his skin with each movement. She placed a straw at his lips, coaxing him into drinking whatever liquid the glass she held contained, and little by little, he was able to swallow most of what was there. He closed his eyes again, ready to fall asleep, mumbling about a pecan tart, and he heard promises that he’d have one, he just needed to rest, and eventually, he fell into an uneasy sleep again, plagued by dreams of sheets of stone and thistles.

**~*~*~*~**

The train back to Wiltshire from London seemed to be taking forever. The hands of Draco’s watch had moved far too many times for his liking since he’d left the Manor. He didn’t know how Muggles survived with such transport methods. They were slow and never arrived as precisely as Portkeys or Apparition. How his father could possibly have despised them for their lack of magic, Draco had long since ceased to understand, given their ingenuity in compensating for the lack. They lived better than many of the Squibs he had encountered. In an effort to do something useful while he was still miles away from home, he checked to make sure he did in fact have the correct sums in Muggle currency to pay his fare to the Manor. There was a black case on the seat beside him, and he kept one hand constantly in contact with the Muggle medications and assorted equipment that he had got to help ease the pain Potter was in. 

Eventually the train arrived, and he alighted, getting a taxi back to the Manor. When the car pulled off the main road, he saw a crowd of reporters standing in front of the outer gate. A black cloud of rage descended over Draco as he got out of the car, paid the driver, and Obliviated him before the mob surged towards him. He raised his wand – his new, perfectly-matched, Potter-given wand – which made the more sensible among them draw back a fraction, and spoke coldly. “If you don’t stand off, you will be forcibly moved.”

They pressed toward him nonetheless, shouting questions, wielding cameras and enchanted notebooks, trying to get a statement, and Draco felt not one moment’s compunction in uttering the spell that hurled them ungently aside, leaving him with a clear path to the gate. It was nothing dangerous, merely slightly injurious to their dignity and outer robes. As he headed down the drive, he fortified the protections around the boundary of the grounds, and headed into the house.

When he reached the western wing, he was gratified to find that Mrs Prout was still with Potter, and he was asleep. He motioned for her, and she rose quickly, closing the distance.

“Yes, sir?”

“Contact Magical Law Enforcement. There are reporters at the gate, and I’m concerned for both my safety and Potter’s. I want Auror protection, or at least a patrol to make sure that the Statue of Secrecy isn’t breached, and to ensure public order. I’ve already had to Obliviate one Muggle, and that road isn’t exactly untravelled.” He paused, considering. “The next time you need to leave the grounds, if the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is unwilling to provide some sort of protection, tell me. I’ll make private arrangements.” It was probably the best he could do to protect the woman’s safety. If it came to it, he would prevail upon his unwontedly long-suffering mother to escort her: he had never seen anyone as quick or vicious with a Stinging Hex as his mother when provoked. 

“Yes, Mr Malfoy,” she replied, leaving him alone with Potter. He walked to the bedside table and began to assemble the drip stand for the bag of Muggle painkillers. Following the precise handwritten instructions from Alan Henderson, Draco sterilised Potter’s hand, then inserted the needle carefully, taping the syringe in place. _Henderson’s not a bad sort, for someone who spends all his time with Muggles and idiots,_ he reflected. _Clearly as patient as a rock._

It then occurred to Draco, as he connected the clearly labelled tubes, that he wouldn’t mind having an assistant like him – someone gentler and less inclined to have to bite his tongue when people were being bloody stupid, someone who didn’t mind handling sticky children and runny babies, someone whose inward response to a patient or relative breaking down in tears wasn’t exasperation and distaste. He dismissed the thought, though. He didn’t even know if he was going to be returning to mainstream practice anyway, and the long-range future was hardly his most pressing concern: the worryingly pale, slightly skinny bundle of flesh and blood whimpering in his sleep but insensibly soothed by the sound of Draco’s voice, was.

It was also then that he allowed himself to recognise – or couldn’t avoid the conclusion, once the train of thought had been started – how Potter seemed to turn to and reach out to his presence. No one had ever looked at him that way before, as if he were the sun, and no one had ever trusted him so absolutely. Then Draco realised that he had never been so keenly aware of the need to protect and preserve another person, not on such an intimate level or with such unswerving dedication. The man suffering so painfully in the bed before him aroused in him an unfamiliar instinctive drive to submerge his own wants in favour of someone else’s, and it hit him with the sharpness of an enraged Hippogriff and the inevitability of losing the Quidditch match to Gryffindor that Potter had become the absolute centre of his universe. 

He looked at the man sleeping, seeing how weak he was, how fragile the removal of Weasley’s spell had left him, and he remembered the cold spike of sick fear that had lanced through him when Potter had stopped breathing. 

He backed into the chair beside the bed, the realisation of how close he had come – could still come – to losing Potter making his vision swim and breathing hitch. 

He had already discussed obtaining a portable defibrillator and oxygen supply with Henderson for when the _Malleus Mentis_ was removed; now he just needed to convene with Granger to set up getting a power supply of some sort. He realised with a faint shock that he would let Muggles tramp through every room of the Manor, tearing up floors and digging holes in walls, if that was what it took to power the machine that could keep Potter alive; and hot on the heels of that thought was the shattering thunderbolt of understanding that there was, in fact, _nothing_ he would refuse to countenance or sacrifice if it would buy Potter’s safety and welfare. 

The door clicked open, and Draco’s head snapped up. He relaxed a fraction when he saw his mother. 

Her attention fixed immediately on Potter and the strange apparatus attached to his arm. “How is he? The exposure to magic seems to have exacted a heavier toll each time.”

In a voice that didn’t sound like his own, Draco replied, “This one was worse because it was aimed at him. And there were two spells. Weasley’s invaded every cell of his body, and the female’s was ripping out something that had been part of him, built into his psychological and physical make-up, for years. It’s only natural that he’d be hit harder by them. But there really wasn’t a choice.” Draco was aware that he sounded like he was pleading for reassurance, for her to tell him that he was right, and he despised himself for it.

“Of course there wasn’t,” she agreed, and he hated that she was able to recognise the note in his voice so easily and respond so complacently. “If there had been, you would have taken it. Mr Potter knows that, too.” Narcissa looked at Potter for a moment, then turned her attention back to Draco. “Does he know that you’ve spent weeks, while your models are running, trying to find a way to transfer the affliction to yourself?”

Draco started, hot with heavy embarrassment. No one had been supposed to find out about that – mainly because it had failed, there was no such spell, and even if there had been, he knew that it could have stripped Potter’s magic completely or killed him outright. 

He forced himself to remain still and his voice to remain perfectly level as he answered. “Of course not. And don’t tell him. He’d be appalled. And guilt-stricken.”

His mother hummed faintly, crossing to seat herself on the window-seat, and regarded him calmly. “You appear to be unusually preoccupied with Harry’s sentiments. Changing your tea, encouraging his friends to visit, playing every night…” Draco was embarrassed. She had never mentioned it before, but although he hadn’t seriously thought he’d got away with it going unremarked, he didn’t like having it pointed out to him. Her expression changed very slightly, assuming the thoughtful air that usually meant that she was about to reveal something devastating. “He was deeply touched by those signs of regard, Draco. He sought my advice. I provided it, of course.”

Draco bit back a withering remark and restrained himself to, “I can’t imagine why I’m surprised by that. Is that what family loyalty has come to?”

The line of her lips hardened to one of disapproval. “Frankly, yes. I believe he can be good for you. I know you can be good for him. You already have been: I can see it in him. And I felt it was my duty to provide what guidance and support I could. Your best interests are paramount in my mind, and their furtherance is the best display of family loyalty there can be. Since Mr Potter is clearly crucial to your contentment, I would have gone to any lengths to bring things to their… natural conclusion.”

The statement was more alarming than reassuring, and, having been blissfully unaware that she had harboured such strong feelings in the matter, he found himself thankful that she hadn’t had to resort to anything extreme. Lucius had been a crude bully next to her; she had lost her head when Voldemort had been in the picture, as they all had, but in less nerve-wracking circumstances, he knew she could knock the lot of them into a cocked hat with her unscrupulous manoeuvrings to achieve her goals. It was a pity, he reflected, that she had never gone into politics. She would have made a brilliant Minister – unlike his father, who would have been an unmitigated disaster.

“I believe,” she began, dragging him back from his agreeable distraction, “that Mr Potter is of an overwhelming importance to your happiness. I can but trust that you have _told_ him how vital he is to that, since, although he does his considerable best, he is not the most perceptive of mortals. He benefits from having these things explained in simple terms.”

Anger rose like Fiendfyre over the mortification that had been prompted by her first disclosure, but he sealed it in. Potter’s importance to him could not be overestimated, but her speaking so openly of it could only have been calculated to discompose, and throw him off balance so that her second hit could strike him square. She had, of course, succeeded. He jerked a dismissive shrug that he knew would not deceive her even as he thrust aside the impulse to defend his lover against the slur on his intelligence. It was best simply to let her talk. He couldn’t argue with her – had never been able to argue with her. As much as anything else, she was usually bloody right.

“It would be such a shame if you were to lose him for having kept your tongue between your teeth when you shouldn’t have,” his merciless mother was remarking almost lightly. She paused, and when he – grudgingly – raised his eyes to her, turned on him a look of gentle inquiry that made his palms itch. “Do you really want him to suffer the crushing weight of uncertainty, to feel undesirable, inadequate, unwanted? He hasn’t had the same influences as a child, Draco. Nobody has _ever_ given Harry Potter cause to understand that he can be valued and desired simply for himself. That he’s allowed to collapse and be the weak one and not achieve the impossible in order to be of worth to those around him. No one has ever taught him that he’s precious in his own right. Not for whose son he is or what his destiny might be or what he’s expected to do or what he’s survived, but simply because he draws breath and his heart beats.” Draco had looked away again, but that did nothing to stop the steady flow of his mother’s measured discourse. He knew a juvenile urge to run for the sanctuary of his own room, but stifled it, and directed his focus to the suffering, sleeping face of the man in the bed.

“He has a hollowness inside,” his mother went on serenely. “An aching void where that centre of ‘I am worth something even when I can do nothing’ should be. He’s desperately afraid of being cast aside or locked away in the dark because he’s not what those around him want him to be.”

His face felt like stone, and Draco sought that calm, letting the words divide and pass around him like a river. It didn’t discourage her.

“He needs that reassurance,” her voice continued, with that same inexorable gentleness, like running water eroding rock. “And sometimes he needs it presented obviously. He is almost pathetically grateful for whatever crumbs of affection and regard you toss to him. I must confess myself somewhat perturbed that you seem content to allow him to retain that insecurity and baseless conviction of inherent, fundamental worthlessness.” She paused until, unwillingly, he looked at her again, and then regarded him for a painfully long moment. Her expression softened infinitesimally, becoming tinged with something like sorrow.

“I am also concerned for your mental wellbeing should something happen to put Mr Potter beyond your reach without you making him clearly aware of his standing and importance in your life,” she added, with a gentleness from which the relentless ruthlessness was gone. “This attack has hit him harder than the last, and enough so to make you fearful. The next one may be too much for his constitution.” She paused again, and her expression took on that shade of sharp-edged, ironic levity; when she spoke, her tone had lightened and hardened to match it. “It would be a criminal waste if Mr Potter – all that he is, all that he means – were to pass away. I don’t know what I’d do with myself. You, of course, have your researches, but I have been devoting myself to him more throughout the day; I have enjoyed his company at meals, and I believe he has drawn as much pleasure as I have from my reading to him and sharing with him memories of his parents in their childhood, their courtship and marriage. It would grieve me sincerely if he were to be overcome by this condition in the end.” She stopped then, and speared him on the undiluted force of one of her most penetrating, pitiless gazes, abandoning all pretence of mildness to add, “And it would grieve me to see my son lose the one person I’ve ever felt could match him.”

She stopped, watching Draco narrowly, as the suffocating certainty that Draco wouldn’t survive Potter’s loss crashed back upon him, though he was only distantly aware of her focus. He stared blankly into space as flashes of trying to live without Potter – and everything Potter brought to his life now, even in his current state – spun across his mind’s eye. Never to hear the sound of Potter’s voice, or his regretful sighs. Never to hear the complete openness and feeling in his vocalisation of arousal, his laughter, or ordinary speech. Never to see Potter’s eyes alight with mirth, or passion, or interest; never to feel his skin, whether wet or dry; never to experience his scent, or the weight of his body. There was no imagining it. There was no bearing the imagining.

The next thing Draco knew, Narcissa was leaning in, having crossed the intervening distance, dabbing at his face, wiping away tears he hadn’t realised were there. 

His mother opened her mouth to speak, but a scratch at the door forestalled her, and he felt his own mask of inscrutable composure slam into place of its own accord, even as his mother’s uncharacteristically open, tender expression was abruptly veiled. The door opened, and Mrs Prout stepped through. 

“There’s someone from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the Floo wishing to speak to one of you.”

Narcissa stood and left the room, and Draco remained where he was, silent, listening to the intermittent sounds from the bed.

**~*~*~*~**

Green eyes blinked open slowly, a soft groan burning Harry’s throat as he tried to shift. There was something in his right hand, and as he tried to move his fingers, he felt the strange, extra bone-like sensation prevent him from so much as twitching them. There was also something holding it in place, something terribly uncomfortable that stretched his skin. Looking up, he saw Draco sitting in the chair beside the bed. He whimpered as he tried to move the heavy duvet from his body, but he could barely lift his hand, let alone the imposing fabric. 

Aware that Harry was awake, Draco snapped to attention, “How are you feeling?” leaving his lips before his eyes were even properly open.

“Awful.”

“Is the pain any better?”

“No’ much,” Harry mumbled. 

He sat up in the seat and did something that Harry couldn’t see. “You should feel the benefit soon.”

“Mmm. Mrs Prout made th’ tart. Can smell it.”

“Would you like some?”

“For you,” Harry said, trying to move his hand again. 

Draco blinked in surprise. “Oh. Well, thank you. But you shouldn’t be expending your energy on spoiling me right now.”

“Asked El'nor,” Harry mumbled. 

Draco shook his head. “You have more important things to spend your energy on than asking her to pander to my dietary whims,” he said, brushing the backs of his fingers along Harry’s forehead. 

“Gon’ have some?”

“Yes, in a while.”

“’kay,” Harry sighed, noticing his head no longer felt like it was ready to split open. He moaned slightly as he moved, the duvet still a smothering weight and making his skin feel highly uncomfortable. He tried to move it, his arm lifting slightly, but not enough to shrug it off entirely. 

“No, Potter. Harry. You need to keep that on.”

“No,” Harry protested as Draco tucked his arm back under the blanket. 

“You need to stay warm. You’re still getting too cold too quickly.”

“’S uncomf’table.”

“I know, but you need to stay warm.”

The desire to express accurately how bloody irritating and _wrong_ the bedding felt was there, but Harry’s thoughts were growing fuzzy, and all he knew was that he wanted the damned thing off. Even if he was cold, it was better than that Merlin-be-damned sensation of his skin being grated off each time he moved, and something that felt like Grawp lying on him. 

“You,” Harry said, losing the train of thought.

“Yes, I’m here. Try to sleep.”

He twitched to move the blanket again. “No, don’t do that,” Draco said, drawing it back up over his shoulder. He wasn’t trying to be difficult, but Draco didn’t understand how bloody awful the usually comfortable duvet felt. “I know you don’t like it, but you have to keep warm.”

Summoning every reserve of energy and concentration, he managed, “Then you… kee’ me warm.”

Harry caught Draco’s startled reaction. “The cover’s better, Potter. Please, just lie still and sleep.”

Showing his disagreement, he tried to tug at it again, whimpering slightly.

Draco was frowning, apparently _finally_ having got the point that the duvet was driving Harry insane. “What is it? Is it too heavy?”

“Please,” Harry murmured. “Hurts.”

“All right. All right.” Draco got up and walked around the other side of the bed, and peeled back the duvet.

“Better?” he asked, folding his arms around Harry. As soon as Draco’s shirt touched him, he hissed in discomfort. “What? What is it? Do you want me to move?”

“Your shirt… scratchy. Skin.”

The bed shifted as Draco rolled away; Harry could hear the fabric as it was removed, and then he felt Draco’s arm around him, and Draco’s chest against his back. The pressure of the contact still hurt, but Draco’s skin was soft, and it didn’t feel grating or coarse like the duvet had. There was a feeling a light cover over his legs, up to the hip, and he closed his eyes, only dimly aware of the gentle, almost painless press of lips against his shoulder as he drifted off to sleep.

**~*~*~*~**

Fingers twitched against the bed, as tired, heavy-lidded eyes slowly began to open. Aware that he no longer had the comforting presence of Draco behind him, Harry, with considerably less effort than the previous evening, spoke. “Draco?”

He heard something being set on the floor and opened his eyes, blinking to adjust to the light. 

“Good morning, Mr Potter,” Narcissa said. “Draco has stepped out for a few minutes. How do you feel?”

“Better,” he said in a voice that sounded unfamiliar. His throat was dry, and he tried to swallow, failing. 

“Would you like a sip of water?” she asked. 

“Please,” he replied, realising he only had a light sheet covering his lower body and that he was completely naked. His face heated as he heard her pleasant laugh.

“Actually, that’s not a question. Draco instructed me quite clearly to ensure that you had some fluid intake.” 

She perched on the edge of the bed, then helped him up, a groan escaping his lips as she moved his aching body, arranging the tube attached his hand, and supporting him against her. 

“’M okay. Just sore,” he assured, her manoeuvring quite gentle, but any movement was taxing to him at that moment. 

Cool glass was placed against his lips, and he drank slowly, never more grateful for water. Narcissa was patient, allowing him to drink as he needed, and the way she supported him felt like a position she was familiar with, and it made him wonder how often she’d been in a similar position in the past. Having never been held in such a way, he cherished it, letting his entire being bask in the warmth of someone – a mother – giving him something so foreign. 

“Have you done this for Draco a lot?” he blurted, flushing at his impulsivity.

“Not recently. But when he was small, though,” she replied, the smile evident in her voice. 

“Why? Er… I mean, what did he do?”

“There was an epidemic of Dragon Pox at his preparatory school. He was dreadfully ill for weeks. More spot than skin.” Her tone suggested she was still smiling. 

Harry tried to imagine that, and found himself laughing lightly.

“He went to school before Hogwarts?” Harry’s brow furrowed. “S’ppose I never thought about... witches and wizards before Hogwarts.”

“We had tutors for several years, but Lucius deemed it wise to send him to preparatory school when he was older, so that he would have experience of the classroom environment. He didn’t care for it.”

“With Muggles?” Harry asked, his body protesting the strain of laughter. He had no knowledge of how witches and wizards were educated before Hogwarts. 

“Oh, no. For wizards only. Draco didn’t lay eyes on a Muggle until he was thirteen.”

“I didn’t know… it’s like moving to a new world completely,” he said, mainly to himself. He was still completely lost with the ins and outs of wizarding society, even after having been in it for over a decade. 

“It was exactly that.”

Drawn back to the idea of Draco as a child, Harry asked, “What was Draco like then?” 

“The first time he saw a Muggle? Or when he was a child?”

“When he was a child.”

Narcissa laughed softly. “He was… never dull. So bright, when he was very small. Inquisitive. Into _everything_. And avid for any opportunity to handle a wand. When he was eighteen months old, he got hold of his grandmother’s and turned himself completely violet.”

Harry laughed, his mind conjuring images to accompany the disclosure. 

“He wanted to know _why_ everything. And _how_. He used to move Lucius almost to tears with his questions. How do brooms fly? Why don’t house-elves look like people? Where does magic come from? What makes the sun warm?” It was nice to hear about Draco before he had been touched by Voldemort’s plague. “He was fascinated by flying things. And the peacocks. When he was three, he wandered almost to the very boundary wall, after one of the hens,” Narcissa continued. “He was simply filthy when we found him. He’d escaped the nursery and found his way to one of the terraces. Poor Silky was quite distraught. I had to prevent her forcibly from tearing her own ears off.”

With no experience to match those Narcissa was recounting of Draco’s childhood, all he could do was smile, allowing his body to quake slightly with unvoiced laughter. 

“And brooms! My cousin came to visit us, and he brought his broom so that he and Lucius could tour the estate from the air, for whatever reason. And Draco was fascinated. Nothing would do for him but to be taken up himself. Lucius was certain he’d be terrified - he was only four - but he was so _insistent_ that, finally, he did take him up a little way. And he laughed as if it were the finest thing the world had to offer.”

“He’s – was – a good flyer,” Harry interposed.

“Never quite good enough, though. I’ve seldom seen him more cast down than he was by that. It was the one thing above all others he felt genuinely good at, until Hogwarts.” A familiar feeling, that he didn’t have to see – of an expression clouding over and the walls beginning to return – one he’d experienced enough with Draco to understand, made him regret having said anything. “Though, of course, Quidditch was never his first love. That was entirely his father’s insistence.” She laughed slightly, and Harry could feel the forced note. “It was butterflies. Flying things, of course. His first broom; my cousin taught him to fly – Lucius was never really at home on a broom – and shortly after he’d mastered it, he saw the butterflies, and he gave chase.”

“I remember he wanted a racing broom - the day I met him,” Harry added, but it didn’t interrupt her flow of thought.

“Just dull cabbage butterflies, too. But he decided he was going to catch one, so catch one, he did. And Lucius decided then and there that he would take up Quidditch, when anyone could see that he preferred, as you have guessed, racing. And, of course, nothing would do but for him to fly Seeker. It was the best position for him, I suppose, but his heart was in it only as far as his desire to please his father took it.”

Staying silent, wisely, Harry listened. He’d learnt that if he was going to get any information, he just had to let either of the Malfoys talk until they stopped themselves.

“He had raced, until he went to Hogwarts. There wasn’t another boy in the country to touch him; he competed out of his own age range. He beat the younger Diggory boy, you know. So utterly fearless. Perfect knowledge of his position in the air, perfect mastery of his broom. Total focus on his course.” She paused and shook her head slightly. “He was never suited to team sports. He was weaker when required to divide his attention so far,” she was continuing, her tone wistful and full of pride at the same time. She sighed, then said, “I should have persuaded Lucius to send him to Beauxbatons instead of insisting on Hogwarts. He would have been able to continue racing, at least.”

Harry couldn’t help thinking about what wouldn’t have happened if Draco hadn’t been at Hogwarts: _Sectumsempra_ , Vanishing Cabinets, Draco breaking his nose; the list could go on. All of the dots had connected in Harry’s mind. 

“It was selfish of me to send him there; I wouldn’t have seen him less had he been in France.”

He just listened, waiting. He wasn’t going to press for more than she was willing to give him; the thought of losing Draco completely had taught him a lesson in not insisting that every detail be spelled out for him. 

“I always regretted that he had to be an only child. I couldn’t imagine having been one myself.” She seemed to be speaking more to herself than anything, then, and Harry started to wonder if he should remind her that she had a listener.

A long silence stretched between them, and even though she was holding Harry against her body, he felt like there was a chasm separating them, her thoughts separating them, and he wanted to bring her back, keep her talking to him, so he asked the first thing that came to mind. “When’s his birthday?” His mind’s eye burst with an image of Weasleys’ Wildfire Whizz-bangs: explosions of purple butterflies being chased by a young man on a broom.

There was only a moment’s hesitation before she replied, “The fifth of June. Why?”

“I never knew that. Wanted to do something for him.”

“Oh?”

“George is quite brilliant, really. Does Draco like fireworks?”

Narcissa laughed. “He certainly used to.”

“Do you do something... big? For him? Party, that sort?”

“No longer. We... ceased to do such things several years ago.” The barely perceptible tight note to her tone made Harry realise how stupid the question had been, a frown weighing his lips down. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Not at all. Ordinarily, now, we celebrate with supper in the orangery. Purely for ourselves. Some of his friends call during the day, but it is... a quiet occasion. We dine, and then I read to him. It has become almost a ritual.” Harry could hear the smile in her voice. 

“I ... would it be too much to have George make something?”

She laughed. “I doubt he would want the Orangery turned into a quagmire.”

“I was thinking more... purple butterflies being chased by someone on a broom. George can make dragons and all that... Fireworks.”

“I think he would enjoy that,” she replied.

“Would you mind sending him an owl for me? I don’t care how much it costs, but I would rather he not make it available for anyone...”

“George Weasley? Certainly, if you wish. Though... I must ask whether it is entirely wise. Your condition is still... susceptible to magic.”

“He’ll work it out by then... and if he doesn't, he did everything he could. I, uh, would still want him to have that.”

“Mr Potter, please speak plainly,” she said, the frown evident in her statement. Harry continued to stare at the bedding, unable to look at her. “Do you mean to imply that you consider your demise likely?”

“I don’t know. After this... it’s been hard not to.”

“I intended merely to convey that Draco would be unlikely to appreciate a gift likely to cause your condition to deteriorate.”

“Yes, but it’s still something he could enjoy if I'm not... around.”

“And you believe that he _would_?” For the first time in his interactions with her since he had moved into the Manor, there was a suggestion of edge to her voice.

“No.” Harry sighed. “I... want to do something for him. He's given up everything.”

Narcissa looked at Harry in incredulity. “You clearly know little of the life he led before your paths crossed again. He has given up nothing that he does not benefit from being without. And that which he has gained infinitely outweighs anything he may have lost.”

Heat spread up Harry’s face and neck at her words; he’d never had anyone tell him something like that before, and he wasn’t entirely certain how to react. Uncomfortably, he maintained his blurry line of sight on the covers, then cleared his throat. “May I have some more water, please?”

“Of course,” she said, and placed the glass at his dry lips. 

“Thank you, Mrs Malfoy,” Harry said, his face still warm with embarrassment. He meant it for her assistance and her kind words, and imagined she would know that, too.

“It is my pleasure and my privilege, Mr Potter. And I hope that I can prevail upon you to call me by name, after all this time.”

“Of course, N-Narcissa. And, please call me Harry? I've never liked being called Mr Potter. Not the way people usually mean it, anyway.”

She laughed gently. “As you wish, Harry.” She paused. “I believe Mrs Prout is keeping some clear soup in readiness, if you are hungry.”

Harry smiled. “I think I could eat something.”

Harry’s body shifted slightly as Narcissa reached for something on the bedside table, and she picked up something, a remote of some sort, and pressed the button. Moments later, Mrs Prout arrived, and Harry, was suddenly aware again of his state of undress, only a sheet covering his lower half, and flushed again as she stood just inside the room, unfazed by their position. Harry could see the shadow of her smile, even without his glasses – a pleasant, warm expression. Narcissa requested some soup for Harry, and Mrs Prout left to gather whatever had been asked for. Harry hadn’t actually been listening – he’d been too embarrassed by someone else, other than Draco, when he’d only just got used to that, seeing him naked. 

“A treasure of a woman,” Narcissa remarked once Mrs Prout had left. Harry nodded, his thoughts on Draco. He could smell tea, and it made him think of Draco’s having stopped drinking what was apparently his preferred tea for Harry, and he wondered if Narcissa knew how long he’d be. 

Before Mrs Prout could return, Harry asked, “Do you know how long Draco will be? I... wanted to see if Mrs Prout would take him some of that tea he likes, but stopped drinking...”

“I believe he’s consulting Mr Weasley; he left shortly before you woke, and indicated that he may be some little time. I think he would appreciate the gesture." 

“Mmm,” he hummed, a smile on his face. He was growing tired again. 

The loyal housekeeper returned, setting everything up on the bedside table, and before she left, Harry asked, “Eleanor, would you mind taking some of Draco’s tea – the Lap-something – to him?”

“Of course, Harry.” She smiled, then left them alone.

Narcissa patiently fed Harry an aromatic broth that seemed to awaken his dulled tastes. When he had had his fill, which wasn’t much, he asked, “Would you mind helping me lie back down? I'd like to rest a bit...”

“Certainly, Harry. Draco will be pleased to hear that you’ve eaten.”

“Thank you,” replied as he closed his eyes, and he heard Narcissa move back to the armchair beside the bed. He fell asleep quickly, a sense of being watched over, protected, swelling around him, blanketing him as he drifted off, the strange sound of needle and thread moving through fabric his anchor.

**~*~*~*~**

Warmth, not the burning of magic, engulfed Harry. Skin against skin, breath ruffled his hair, tickling him slightly, and he shifted, as much as his sore body would allow, and there was a deep inhale from behind him, then a choke, brief gasping inhales from Draco. That nearly every time he’d woken up, Draco had been with him still, made Harry feel on top of the world, even in his current state. He wasn’t alone, wasn’t being left alone, and it made him feel loved, cherished, wanted. 

“You okay?” Harry asked.

“Mmph. Yes. How do you feel?” Aloe-scented breath ghosted across Harry’s face.

“All right. Still sore, but skin doesn’t hurt as much.”

Gentle fingers stroked his abdomen lightly, and his stomach fluttered in response. “Good. Do you think you'll be able to tolerate a sponge bath?” Draco asked.

“That’d be brilliant,” he said enthusiastically. He felt sticky, like there was a film of grime covering his skin, despite his having been inactive for the past few days. 

“Mm. Good. I shall fetch some towels, then.” Draco yawned. 

“I woke you up,” Harry said as the security and warmth of Draco’s body disengaged from his.

“I was only dozing.”

“Mmm,” Harry hummed sceptically. “How are _you_ feeling?”

“Oddly accomplished. I have perfected a new hex.” He stretched, and Harry cast him a quizzical expression. “The members of the gutter press camped at the gates might as well be a source of entertainment as well as an annoyance.”

Harry groaned in irritation, hating that they couldn’t leave well enough alone. 

“They can’t actually get _in_ ,” Draco assured him. And three of them will now spontaneously lose control of their bowels at the mention of your name for the next week or so.”

Horrified, Harry said, “Draco, um, you can’t keep doing that.” Years ago, Harry would probably have encouraged him, but he didn’t want any negative consequences to befall Draco should Aurors decide to investigate the press’s sudden, strange afflictions after leaving the Malfoy grounds.

Pale eyebrows rose. “I fail to see any reason why.”

“Because you’ll end up hexing and cursing a lot of people if you hex every one of them that tries to print something about me. I am, unfortunately, always going to be ‘news’ to them. I hate it; I always have, but they don’t change.”

A smile, with a hint of wickedness, spread on Draco’s face. “Then this would probably be a bad time to tell you about the further two who now spontaneously experience orgasm at the mention of your name.”

If Harry could have lifted his hands, they’d have been against his face, a means to hide his embarrassment and frustration. His stomach turned in a way he wasn’t sure was good or bad, and, even with the appreciation that Draco only sought to protect him, he knew he couldn’t let things continue as they were. 

“What? Why... would you?”

“It seemed appropriate.” Harry disagreed.

“Um, there’s really only one person... um—” Harry stopped, unable to continue piecing that sentence together. “Please don't hex or curse any more of them. Draco? Please? I don't want Aurors coming after you.”

Draco huffed slightly. “They’re hardly likely to make the connection. I doubt any of the affected parties will be willing to seek medical assistance.”

“That's not the point,” Harry said, his frustration with Draco’s skewed sense of right and wrong mounting. “I really appreciate the thought, but... You can’t hex or curse every witch and wizard who intends to write something bad about me or you or—”

“I can.” 

Harry looked at him for a moment, realising Draco had elected to respond to his statement as though Harry had disputed his actual ability to cast the spells, rather than the fact that Harry would prefer Draco not use magic against the stupid tossers.

“It’s all relatively low-grade magic, in terms of power required,” Draco added, for all the world as if he were simply seeking to reassure Harry of his competence.

“That’s not what I meant. I don’t want another Rita Skeeter.”

“There won’t be one. I’m making sure of that.”

Lips parted to speak, but no words came. Harry understood what Draco was doing, but he didn’t agree with it. Torn, divided, that was the best way to describe how he was feeling. He’d never had anyone care so much whether he was slandered – especially a person who had done it in the past, and it made him stop to appreciate how much things had changed over the years. 

“I won’t have you maligned, Potter. The sooner the gutter press realises that, the happier and more fruitful its members’ lives will be,” Draco was continuing. “They’ll get the point sooner or later.” He clearly didn’t much care which.

“I don’t care what they say. As long as you know the truth, I couldn’t care less what anyone else thinks.”

Long, pale arms folded, his lover magnificent in his anger – and still completely naked. He looked just as dangerous nude and wandless as he would fully dressed and brandishing his new wand. Slightly thrilled at the sight, Harry had to force a smile away – that was not the time to appreciate the planes and angles of Draco’s body or his formidability. 

“I won’t tolerate it. They will treat you with the consideration you deserve, or they will suffer the consequences.”

Growing tired of arguing, Harry said softly, “As long as you do, I don’t care.”

“I won’t have it,” Draco repeated stubbornly.

“And what happens when they figure it out and start up the ‘Draco Malfoy is trying to kill Harry Potter’ nonsense again?”

“They’ll wish they hadn’t.”

“And you think I want them printing rubbish about you?”

“It won't last long if they try it. The legal agents I retain aren’t so much lawyers as slavering Sphinxes.”

“I don’t like it. A few years ago, I wouldn’t have cared, but I don’t want anything to happen to you because of me.” Harry sighed; he was losing energy and he didn’t want to waste it on arguing a point that should have been completely obvious. “I don’t have the energy to argue with you any more."

Draco quirked a smile. “That’s a first.”

“Yeah.” Harry was just thankful that Draco hadn’t misinterpreted or misunderstood what he’d said. “What’s happened since the party?” A variety of questions ran through his thoughts, but he needed to focus on one thing at a time.

“A lot of stupidity and speculation. The Weasley girl has been arrested.” The satisfaction was clear to Harry, and he had to admit that he also felt it, too.

“Oh?”

“On suspicion of using Dark Magic, and attempted murder. They won’t make either charge stick, of course, but she has the dubious honour of being the most hated woman in Britain. Weasley and Granger have been calling daily, of course.”

“She could have killed me, couldn’t she?”

“Yes, but she lacked intent. Murder is a crime of intent. Without the requisite mens rea, the actus reus becomes... less significant. It wouldn't even have been involuntary manslaughter.” He looked disgusted. “Shacklebolt has been in contact daily. My mother is rather enjoying that. We now have Auror protection.”

“Who?”

“Weasley and Dawlish have been with us every day since we brought you back here.” Draco rolled his eyes. “And Weasley and I are making satisfactory progress on the counter-curse for this variant on _Malleus Mentis_.”

“I don’t suppose you’d want to call them by names, would you? At least so I know _which_ Weasley you’re talking about?”

Draco appeared nettled. “Auror Weasley and curse-breaker Weasley respectively.”

A snort of amusement broke the silence, and Harry said, “It’s a start.”

“Lovegood has been repeatedly. And, of course, Mrs Weasley has been in frequent contact.” 

“She has?” That confused Harry a bit.

“She seems to think that her treacle tart would do you a world of good. And she probably wants to grovel in apology for the reprehensible conduct of her spawn.” Draco’s tone and the change in his expression seemed to imply that grovelling was the least she could do.

“I don’t think I want to see her just yet. Wouldn’t mind seeing Hermione or Ron or Luna, though. When I’m awake a bit longer, anyway.” He took a moment, considering, then, knowing he needed to make arrangements in the event that something did happen to him, added, “I’d like Hermione to go ahead and handle speaking with Praie, if that’s okay.” Draco nodded and began to move toward the bathroom. “And about switching ... um...” he tried to think of the proper word, “…Power of Attorney?”

“You wish to alter the terms of her Power of Attorney? Praie can handle it, of course, but—”

Harry looked at Draco. “To you.”

Stopping, as though there was an invisible wall between himself and the bathroom, Draco’s face went completely unreadable. “That’s... a significant change.”

“Hermione’s got enough problems. And you’ll make the right decision for me if I can’t.”

Draco inclined his head, then continued to the bathroom. A few moments later, he returned with towels and a sponge.

“I’m going to roll you to one side so that I can put these down. Then I’ll roll you onto them. Can you tolerate that?”

”Should be fine, yeah. Your mum held me up for a while today and it was ... okay."

“Did she?” Draco asked as he pulled the fine sheet back, then started to shift Harry to his side. The movement was still slightly uncomfortable for Harry, mainly because he still felt like one large bruise, and, holding back the groan that took all of effort to hold in, he spared Draco that knowledge.

After setting everything up, Draco left Harry on the towels to fetch a couple of basins of water. While he was filling them, Harry said, “I can move my fingers today.”

“Good. Any pins and needles or increased numbness?”

“No, not since before the medication.”

“Even better. That means your circulation is satisfactory, despite the immobility and lack of physiotherapy.” 

Returning to his side, Draco knelt beside the bed. “And do you feel comfortable with the rate of reduction of your painkillers?” The first few careful strokes of the sponge against Harry’s skin took some getting used to, but he eased into it, remaining distracted easily with the conversation.

“S’ppose. I’m just glad my skin isn’t as sensitive. Duvet was a nightmare.”

“You’re recovering well.” It sounded almost like praise; as if it were something Harry had chosen to do and put active effort into.

“It’ll be like this next time, too, won’t it?” Harry sighed slightly, his discomfort prompting a poor attempt at humour. “It didn’t hurt this much when I died.”

The sudden absence of expression on Draco’s face was confusing.

“I... will need to ask you about that, one day. I need to be certain of any lingering effects on your physiology.”

“Nothing to tell, really,” Harry said. He knew Draco hadn’t asked him to say anything then, but Harry didn’t think there was anything terribly important about the whole thing. He’d already been cleared medically for that, but he was coming to find that that really didn’t mean anything. “Voldemort cast the Killing Curse, but he couldn’t use the Elder wand against me. He wasn’t the Master, even if he had it. I... this sounds ridiculous. I haven’t told anyone about what happened. But I was in King’s Cross with Dumbledore. We talked. And he gave me a choice: I could take the train with him, or I could come back. I don’t really... understand what happened. I just woke up and heard Voldemort order someone to see if I was dead, and your mum saved me. Said I was dead.” As he had been speaking, Harry had noticed that Draco’s gaze had shifted; he was no longer looking at Harry’s face, and that was alarming. Harry couldn’t understand why Draco was so uncomfortable.

Draco nodded tightly. “Hallucination isn’t uncommon in near-death experiences. Nor is the... conviction of choice.”

“I don’t remember most of it now.”

“That’s understandable.” 

Characteristically steady hands had begun to tremble against Harry’s body, and he began to worry. “Draco?”

“Hmm.” He didn’t look up. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Is this water too hot?” What had only been conjecture had just been confirmed by Draco’s deflection: something was wrong.

“Why are you shaking?” he asked, not wanting the conversation to derail.

“I hadn’t realised how draughty it was in here. I don’t make a practice of wandering around the house naked, generally.”   
“I don’t believe you.”

“You’re perfectly at liberty to ask my mother. I am confident that she’d remember it if I had.” A lump formed in Harry’s stomach.

“You were fine until I made a joke about my dying not hurting as much.”

Enamel ground on enamel, and Draco said, “I need to change this water.” He stood and left the room abruptly, leaving Harry with a building sense of dread. 

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Harry didn’t understand what the problem was. Since all he could do was wait, Harry closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. The web of confusion grew even more convoluted with each thought he parried, and he opened his eyes at the sound of Draco’s footfalls against the carpet, noticing Draco’s inscrutable mask had slipped in place again.

“Better?” Harry asked, unsure what else he could say. 

“I also modified a jinx which causes the victim to erupt in perianal boils. I was saving that one for tomorrow,” Draco said as he returned to the bedside. 

“Mmm," Harry hummed in confusion. The morning after Draco had abruptly left the room after Harry had realised Draco wasn’t returning his affection because he’d wanted to, Draco had done the same thing – had started the conversation where they’d left off, only this time, he seemed to have reverted to what they’d been talking about before he’d become so uncomfortable. 

“There’s a singularly obnoxious fellow with artificially blond hair and foul taste in robes,” Draco was saying. “Even Dawlish dislikes him.” 

“Is Ron playing this game, too?” Harry asked, wondering if the statement about Dawlish not liking the man, too, meant that he was participating in hexing the press. He may not have understood what had upset Draco, but he wasn’t going to push; he’d learnt his lesson. 

“Certainly not. Dawlish took the view that it wouldn’t appeal to his sense of humour. He doesn’t even know about it.” 

“Ron hasn’t got much of a sense of humour about anything any more,” Harry said, more to himself than meant as an accompaniment to what Draco had said.

“I can’t claim to know him well enough to have any insight on that point. I may get to know him better over the next few days, of course.”

“Why’s that?” Harry asked.

“They’re staying here,” Harry sputtered in surprise slightly. “With four others. The Department takes your safety seriously.” 

For once, Harry was able to interpret what Draco really meant: “ _I_ take your safety seriously”. His letting the Aurors stay in the Manor was a big gesture, to Harry’s mind. The words didn’t need to be spoken; he’d shown Harry that much with his talk about hexing reporters. He wondered briefly if Draco had spoken about it with intent to seek Harry’s approval. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, some of the dread dissolving like salt in water.

Draco shrugged. “It doesn’t discommode me. My mother keeps them at bay, and the house-elves take care of them; and when they’re not officially working, the entertain themselves by looking for Dark relics, though, of course, I’m not supposed to know that. I should be thanking you, in fact. Mrs Prout brought my tea.”

Harry flushed. 

“I intend to invite Granger to join her husband,” Draco stated, firmly adopting a new topic of conversation which could not possibly lead back to previous subjects.

“She’ll want to see the library.”

Draco snorted. “She’ll need an armed escort. Some of those books are _sentient_. And temperamental.”

“Maybe not, then. She’s pregnant.”

“I know. That much has been obvious for a good four months. She appears to be anaemic.”

“I didn’t... know. Until before the party. But that’s your field... and I’ve .. been a bit preoccupied.”

“Quite understandably.”

Realising that he didn’t know whether Draco was aware of Ron and Hermione’s marital problems, he decided he should say something. “Um... they’re having problems. Ron and Hermione.”

“I know. That much has also been obvious for several months. I doubt they were ever compatible.”

“No, probably not. It’s funny, though. Ron was so jealous of Krum in fourth year. But he... never really tried. He’s my best mate...."

“Which of course excuses him of any and all possible failings," Draco remarked sarcastically, but there was no real bite to what he’d said. 

“No, I was just thinking that she probably needs someone who _is_ content to sit and watch her read for hours. That’s what Krum did. Ron probably just gets narked or something.”

“Very probably. Krum, on the other hand, _did_ consider it high entertainment. I never understood that. None of us did. Strange chap, Krum.” 

Harry smiled. “Maybe he just liked seeing her happy in what she was doing. I don’t know.”

“I was surprised that Weasley didn’t stay with the Brown girl.” 

The first real surge of laughter moved through Harry with lightning-like speed and reverberated in the bedroom. “I wonder if she still calls him Won-Won.”

Visible relief showed in Draco’s expression, for what, though, Harry didn’t know. “I daresay she does. I could find out.” 

“I don’t care, really. It always irritated me. But they were matched well. He’s daft as a brush, and she was just as bad.”

“She was a halfwit.” 

“Mmm,” Harry agreed. “Um... do you feel like brushing my teeth?”

“If you like. Once I’ve finished here, though.” 

“Yes, please. My mouth feels foul.” Draco nodded. “I like baths much better.”

“As soon as I can move you to the bathroom, you shall have one.”

Harry nodded, inhaled slowly, and steeled himself to ask what exactly had happened when Bill had run the scan on him. He only remembered bits and pieces of it, but he needed to know. “What happened when Bill did the scan?” Draco took a measured breath. “I was looking at you, and... I remember letting go and then, nothing but pain.”

“Do you recall a remark I made about the results of some of the models I was running suggesting a complication? A beneficial influence?”

“Yeah.”

“It transpires that those results were entirely correct. There _is_ another enchantment on you. It’s been there for over a decade.” 

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I... don’t recall anyone ever casting anything...”

“No, you wouldn’t. It was Severus Snape who placed it on you.” 

“Snape?” Harry was shocked. He remembered the Shrieking Shack, but before that, Snape had always hated Harry. Now that he was older, wiser, he could understand it, but it still didn’t change the disbelief he felt then. “Right! He hated me.”

“I don’t doubt it. The colour of the enchantment suggests a certain ambivalence of attitude, but the purpose is unmistakable. And the power.” 

“What do you mean? What is that? Like Magical Theory?”

“What is what?” 

“How can you know the purpose and ambivalence of attitude just from the colour?”

Draco grimaced. “It’s not colour, in the literal sense. It’s like... colours of sound. The flavour of a word. You can either feel it or you can’t. I can. Weasley can.” 

Interesting though that notion might have been, Harry dismissed it as unimportant for the moment. “So you’re saying he cast some sort of protective charm on me?"

“Yes, a very powerful charm.”

“And Bill’s scan confirmed that? You said Ginny’s spell was warping it, though… the one I got hit with in Brighton.”

“This charm of Snape’s is what slowed its progress down. He’s saved your life. Which was the purpose of the spell, of course. Generic, but very powerful.” 

Harry nodded numbly in response. He couldn’t understand Snape doing something _kind_ for him. 

“Is that something that has to be removed, too? Fuck, I don’t know if I can take that three times."

The shuttered expression befell Draco’s face abruptly. “No, that should be fine. We’re not sure _how_ we’d remove it, in any case. And it’s been there for so long that it’s fused with you." He paused. “I need to turn you, now.”

“All right.” Harry bit his lip as Draco turned him over, stifling the groan of discomfort. It wasn’t Draco’s fault; he was being gentle. Once he was settled on his stomach, Draco began to wash his back, and Harry closed his eyes, pangs of hunger beginning to taunt him.

“Um... is there any more of that soup from dinner?”

“I expect so. I’ll send for Mrs Prout once I’ve finished bathing you.” 

“Mmm,” Harry hummed in response. He kept his eyes closed, eventually drifting off to sleep.

He woke when Draco turned him over, offering a sleepy smile. Draco re-positioned the sheet for Harry’s modesty, and Mrs Prout came in as Draco was helping Harry sit up, and he flushed brilliantly, surprised that Draco hadn’t covered himself at all at her presence. She left them alone again, and, with the attention he gave everything else, Draco fed Harry slowly, then cleaned his teeth for him. Mrs Prout returned to gather everything, much to Harry’s embarrassment.

“I’ve just got used to you seeing me naked and now Eleanor comes in and… your mum. And they… see you, too.”

Draco frowned. “My mother saw me naked on a daily basis for years.”

“I never… had that. It’s just… _odd_ for me. That’s all. I like it with you... just not other people.”

“Are you trying to say that you’d rather I put on a robe when Mrs Prout is around?”

”No. She’s... okay. She’s like your mum. I just thought you... didn’t— Discretion, you said.”

“This is hardly a public venue. And neither of them is remotely interested in looking at me.”

Flushing brightly, Harry bit his lip and said, “I am.” 

Draco smiled slowly. “Good. Between you and me, I have a passing interest in looking at you, too.”

Harry’s face grew even hotter, and he bit his lip again, smiling. Grey eyes lowered, roaming across his body, then dropped to his sheet-covered cock, and Harry, tired as he was, only felt a fleeting sensation of warmth at the look. 

Draco turned off the lights, then slid into bed, his skin warm against Harry’s. They regarded each other for a long moment, Harry curious, before Draco’s lips were against his, slow, careful, but no less tantalising for their tenderness. There was something about it, while not the animalistic passion of their first few kisses, that still held the same note of possession, and Harry, ready to lose every bit of breath in his lungs, soaked up the affection, a reassurance that even with the worsening of his condition, Draco still wanted him. And for the first time in his life, he understood the pleasure of such a simple thing as a kiss – no requirements for anything more, just the press of lips, and tongues dancing around one another in a rhythm that both parties set.

When Draco pulled back, still placing kisses, ones that lingered along his jaw, or that reached his forehead, Harry looked at him, their breaths mingling, dispersing and gathering again. “What’s got into you?” Harry asked. “Not that I’m complaining…”

“I should hope not.”

“Never get tired of this,” Harry murmured.

Draco smiled – something Harry would never take for granted, along with a lot of other things – and kissed him again. He felt needed, and he, too, needed exactly what Draco was giving. 

What was left of Harry’s energy began to wane, until he was rolled over to his side gently, a soft groan forced from him. He didn’t mind, though. He liked Draco being wrapped around him, keeping him warm and safe. He smiled, humming softly at the kisses to his shoulders and neck, eventually falling asleep.

**~*~*~*~**

The following morning, Harry woke abruptly, his bladder having released its contents. He groaned softly, and felt Draco stir behind him, frustrated that he had woken him. Instinctively, Harry tried to run his fingers through his hair, embarrassed, and found that he was able to lift his arm fully, though it still took a lot of energy. Draco asked Harry if he thought he could handle a proper bath, and Harry agreed. Mrs Prout was called, much to Harry’s embarrassment, although he understood why, to run the bath and follow with the drip. Carrying Harry and handling the drip stand was impossible, and he, unfortunately, was incapable of manoeuvring it.

Once in the water, he sighed in appreciation, the warmth of the water easing some of the soreness from his body.

“I’ve missed this,” he said sleepily.

Each movement of the sponge against his skin was soft. It felt good to be clean again, felt good to have Draco touching him again. He noted also how much more rested Draco appeared, and told him. 

“I’m fine. I keep telling you, Potter; I’ve slept in far worse circumstances. If you’d ever trained as a Healer, you’d understand.”

“Maybe,” Harry said. “Like sleeping with you.”

“Then sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

So after his bath, and eating breakfast on the sofa, with Draco wrapped around him, he did. He was woken shortly after to meet with an efficient young woman called Dewey, who did her best not to appear overawed, and kept her eyes fixed firmly above his collarbones, which Harry appreciated, to handle his estate and the transference of Power of Attorney from Hermione to Draco. Mrs Prout assisted him with marking all of the appropriate paperwork. After she had left, Draco returned, and Harry went back to sleep.

When he woke again, he was lying on his back in the bed again, and turned his head, surprised that he had been able to do it, and saw Draco in the chair beside the bed, appearing pensive. Harry smiled, blinking to adjust to the light.

“Hey.”

“How are you feeling?”

“All right,” Harry replied as Draco stood, reaching to draw the sheet just above his navel.

Harry’s brow furrowed, wondering what was wrong. Draco’s face had taken on that lost, empty look, and he dared not say anything. 

Draco’s gaze was fixed on Harry’s collarbone, refusing to look him in the eye. “You’ve spoken of regretting our history,” he said abruptly. “I can’t regret anything that’s happened in our pasts, because it’s the culmination of all the things we’ve done and been and thought that have led us to who and what and where we are now. And where we are now is… everything.” He paused, and swallowed. When he went on, his face was as expressionless and his voice as inflectionless as if he were an automaton. “I trust you realise your importance and worth. I also trust that you know how central you are to my existence. You define me. There’s no one and nothing more important than you. That— Remember that, please.”

Draco never looked up, never said anything else, and never gave Harry a moment to comment, for he was striding toward the door, and had it open before Harry could find his voice, closing it even as Harry called out, “Draco!” 

He stared at the door for a moment, his thoughts a maelstrom of revelations, about Draco and about their relationship, or whatever it was they had together. Harry hadn’t really sought a definition before, but for some reason he wanted one in that moment. His mind conjured memories from the last few months, of his interactions with Draco, and Draco’s responses to him; and suddenly as Christmas – Draco’s reaction to Harry’s gift – flew across his mind, he recalled Draco’s reaction the previous night to his talking about death, and it all made sense: Draco was incapable of talking about his emotions and feelings, incapable of processing or conveying them unprepared. It hadn’t been about rejection or anger when he had left so precipitously, but his inability to be as open as Harry, at least not with his words – his actions always murmured their meaning even when there was no voice to be heard. 

As though it had been wrapped tightly, the bindings around his heart seemed to untwine, making him feel lighter and freer than he had for weeks, and it felt damned good to know that Draco cared – loved him as much as Harry loved him. Love might not have been the actual word Draco had used, but the meaning was the same, as far as Harry was concerned. What had been said – and given with his broken declaration – was precious, a treasure that Harry wanted to preserve, to etch into his memory.

He smiled, happy, consumed by warmth. Distracted by his bladder, with some effort, he reached for his bottle and relieved himself, then settled again, closing his eyes, relishing the things Draco had said, replaying them. _There is no one and nothing more important than you._ Harry smiled again; he’d never been central to anyone’s world, and even though he’d felt it when Draco looked at him, it had been confirmed, and it was heartening in his situation. He had a few moments of feeling like he was floating, the weight of his situation again lifting, before the bedroom door opened. 

“Good afternoon, Harry. You appear to be feeling better,” Narcissa said.

He flushed – his state of undress in the presence of anyone other than Draco always drew blood to his cheeks. “I am, thank you.”

She nodded. “I’m very pleased to hear it. Do you feel equal to some correspondence?”

“I think so. From who?”

She smiled again. “One appears to be from Millicent Bulstrode. The other is from The Burrow.” 

“Dudley, then. All right,” he said with a nod. Narcissa’s eyebrows rose inquiringly. “My cousin. He’s married Millicent,” he clarified.

“How remarkable. Still, I’m pleased to know that she got over Draco. She was quite convinced when she was fourteen that they were destined to marry. I was left with no alternative but to be rather blunt. Which would you like to see first?” 

“Dudley’s, I suppose.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Molly had to say yet. 

She opened the envelope, and turned her attention back to Harry. “Would you like me to read it to you, or merely hold it?”

“Read it, if you don’t mind. I can move a bit more, but it still takes a bit of effort.”

Her lips quirked up again. “As you wish.” She cleared her throat and began to read.

“Dear Harry. I should of wrote before—” her eyebrows shot up, “—but I didn’t know what was happening with you or where you was. Then it was in the _Prophet_ about you being at Malfoy Manor. Mils didn’t believe it at first but then they all started saying it so we reckoned it were worth a chance. I hope you’re doing better than they say you are. It sounds like a right mess. I hope it’s not true that it were your girlfriend what did it, too. I know we never got on, but nobody deserves fucking over like that. Mils says if anyone can fix it, it’ll be Draco. He sounds like a proper prick to me, but she reckons he’s okay.” Narcissa coughed delicately and went on; Harry’s face had taken on a shade that could have rivalled his uncle Vernon’s when he was angry. “She says he’s about the cleverest bloke she ever knew who wasn’t a Ravenclaw. She also says watch your back, he’s gayer than a treeful of clabberts on a permanent Cheering Charm. And she says he was sort of obsessed with you in school so you’re probably his type.” Harry didn’t dare look at Narcissa, then. “I told her she’s barking, but she insisted and said she wouldn’t address the envelope unless I put it in. She said she’d better address the envelope because Malfoy Manor’s got all these big-bastard protective charms and shit and she didn’t reckon anything'd get through that wasn't addressed by someone familiar. I never knew your magic had a flavour, but that’s what she says it is. Anyway, I hope you’re doing okay. Half the papers say you’re dying, but even Mils says they make up most of it, and she reckons she’d of heard from Pans if that’d been true. She asked Pans if you was at the Manor and Pans changed the subject so she reckons that confirms all the rumours. Slytherins, eh?” He thought he heard a quiver of amusement in Narcissa’s voice, but didn’t risk stealing a glance: it could still have been horror. “I just wanted to tell you as well that we've got a kid – a little boy called Aloysius – and we reckon he’s a wizard. Well, bit of a clue when he turned my hair orange that time he got hold of her wand. Be a right laugh if he ended up in Gryffindor, but Mils reckons Hufflepuff. Neither of us is Ravenclaw material, and she says if he takes after me he’ll have the political nous of a Flobberworm.” He was fairly sure _that_ was amusement. “I don’t know why she puts up with me sometimes. Anyway, I just wanted to say I’ve heard a bit of what’s going on, and I’m sorry, and I hope you’re doing okay. If you want to owl me sometime or something that’d be brilliant. Cheers. Dudley.”

Narcissa blinked for a moment – Harry was still mortified by Dudley’s choice of words – and she said, “What a remarkable missive.”

She definitely sounded entertained rather than offended. Harry chuckled in response. “He’s never been very bright.”

“Hmmm,” she replied. “Would you like to reply?”

Harry shrugged. “I suppose. If you don’t mind. I really do hate asking you for everything.”

“Nonsense, Harry. It’s a pleasure. I enjoy your company immensely. Now, I will only be a moment: I need to fetch a quill and parchment.”

Nodding, Harry tried to sit up a bit higher on his pillows. He immediately noticed the new addition to the bedroom: a large, flat screen TV. He reached for his glasses and put them on, shocked that Draco had allowed Muggle electronics inside the Manor. 

Narcissa returned, and took a seat once again. When she indicated she was ready, Harry took a moment to gather his thoughts. He wanted to defend Draco, but he also knew he had to be careful what he said.

“Dudley, thanks for writing. Millicent is right, you can’t believe everything in the _Prophet_. I’m doing all right. It’s been a big change, but nothing I’m not comfortable with. I quite like living here.” Narcissa smiled faintly. “Ginny isn’t responsible fully for what happened, but what she did nearly killed me. Draco was able to figure it out, though. He’s as clever as Millicent said, but he’s nothing like you think. He takes care of me. Better than anyone else ever has. And I trust him more than anyone else.” Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a suggestion of gratification on Narcissa’s face, but he didn’t look round to check. “Congratulations on a son. Do your mum and dad know? Maybe they won’t call _him_ a freak.” Narcissa’s eyebrows rose, and Harry turned away; he didn’t want to talk about the Dursleys. “When I’m well again, we should talk. Thanks for writing. Narcissa is being kind enough to reply for me since I can’t. Feel free to send an owl any time. Harry.”

Narcissa smiled again. “I shall owl it today. Would you like me to read Mrs Weasley’s letter?”

Harry nodded numbly, unsure if he really wanted to hear what Mrs Weasley had to say. She pulled the letter from the envelope, and Harry could see half a dozen signatures across the bottom, none of them resembling Ginny’s wild, swirly scrawl.

“Dear Harry,” she began. “I don’t know where to start. I’m so sorry. I had no idea - none of us had any idea - what Ginny was doing. I can barely even believe it, but there’s no arguing with what Bill told us. I’ve seen Great Aunt Letty’s diary myself, too. I can’t believe Ginny could be so stupid or so selfish. I'm so sorry, Harry, dear. If I’d known, I’d never have suggested for a minute that you might want anything to do with her ever again. I wouldn't blame you if you never wanted anything to do with any of us ever again.” There was a faint note of surprise in Narcissa’s voice, but Harry wasn’t surprised, not really. Molly was harassed and hurried and sometimes tactless and overwhelming, but she’d never been anything other than genuinely kind-hearted and generous with her sympathy and affection. “I hope you can believe that we didn’t know. She asked me for the diaries because she wanted a traditional family wedding, like you talked about, and I couldn’t remember as much as I would have liked. I had no idea that there was anything like that in one of them. I’d have destroyed it if I had, I promise you. The Ministry has that diary now. It’s the first time any of us has been ashamed to be a Weasley, knowing that one of our ancestors used that sort of magic.” Narcissa sounded little short of startled by that. “They say it’s not actually Dark, but Bill says that’s probably only because it wasn't a recognised spell. Percy’s arguing that it should be classified as Dark, and we all agree. I wish I could pretend that Ginny hadn't known what it would do. I don’t know where it went wrong, but I hope you know - I hope you don’t need telling - that it’s not your fault _at all_.” Under other circumstances, the similarities between Narcissa and her son – her being so obviously the source of so many of his mannerisms – might have amused Harry: her voice had gone completely toneless. “You never did want the life Ginny wanted, did you? I’m sorry none of us ever saw that.” Narcissa squinted slightly at the handwriting, then continued, “We don’t know whether she’ll be sent to Azkaban or not. She’s still being held by the Aurors. Poor Ronald is beside himself; there are some people saying it was his fault, he should have seen it. He blames himself, just as much as Bill and I blame ourselves. Her mother, an Auror, and a curse-breaker and not one of us saw it. Oh, dear, what must you think of us? I promise you that none of us has ever meant you any harm, Harry. You’re as much a part of the family as any of us. You don’t have to be married to Ginny for that to be true, I hope you can believe that. You’re like a brother to the boys and a son to me and Arthur.” Narcissa hesitated again, narrowing her eyes at the blotch on the parchment. “You always will be, even if you never want anything to do with any of us again. I do hope you can forgive Ron, at least. I think if Hermione hadn’t been there to stop him, he’d have done more than arrest Gin and drag her off to the Ministry. He’s managed to get himself assigned to your protection team, but he promised not to try to see you unless you asked for him. There’s nothing else any of us can say except we’re so sorry, Harry. We’ll always be here if you want us. Take care of yourself, dear. All our love, Molly, Arthur, Percy, Ron, George, and Bill.”

“I don’t want to reply to that one right now,” Harry said, staring at the blank screen of the TV. He heard Narcissa set the letter aside, but then she said nothing for some time, as he sank into gloomy abstraction. 

“I hope you know how to operate that,” she said languidly, at length. Draco, I am afraid, hasn’t the slightest notion.”

“Yeah. I do.” He smiled, appreciative of the distraction.

“It is the correct... item? We weren’t entirely sure what a ‘telly’ ought to look like, but Hermione Granger – delightful young woman – assures us that this is a perfectly acceptable specimen.”

“Yeah, it’s more than I was thinking of. I can’t believe he got one. And power… apparently.”

“Yes, Muggle... eckeltricians?... were here for some time. I have no idea why they felt it necessary to remove some of the floors, but Draco insisted that they knew what they were about.”

”He had that done while I was asleep?”

She nodded. “Yes, very early on. They were under pain of... well, they were under strict instructions not to disturb you. They only laid their ropes—” _Cables_ , he thought, not interrupting, “—in the floors as far as the small ante-room; after that, they merely put them under the carpets. He refused to countenance them digging holes in the room in which you were asleep.”

“That… um… a surprise.”

Narcissa shrugged elegantly. “You indicated that it would please you. Harry, you must have realised by now that it takes no more to move Draco to action? Why, if you were to suggest that you would be more comfortable if I took up residence in the French property, my trunks would be packed before teatime and Draco would have produced any number of perfectly inarguable reasons for which it would benefit _me_ to be there. Why else did you suppose him to be so vicious in deterring those persistent oafs at the gates?”

Harry’s heartbeat grew erratic, his face feeling warm, his breath becoming unsteady. “It’s... no one’s ever cared that much for me before.” He knew he had been saying that a lot recently, but it was true.

With a warm smile, she patted his hand. “Someone does now.”

Harry smiled. “Draco and you and Mrs Prout are like a proper family.”

Seemingly momentarily stunned by his words, Narcissa gathered herself and replied, “Harry, you— it pleases me beyond words to know that.”

Harry smiled brilliantly in response, only to be met with her glowing smile in return. It felt good. 

Remembering how much of arse Harry had been at the start of everything, he was glad that it hadn’t deterred Draco in any of the choices he’d made. With a chuckle, he realised if he’d known about the search for a housekeeper beforehand, he would have been a git about it; his reaction after – assuming that Draco had been attempting to ingratiate himself with Harry – had been enough. “I was a bit narked with Draco when he hired her at first, but... I was being stupid. I’m glad he did. She’s done a lot, too. Like you. And Draco.”

“She is quite devoted.” A pause, then an expression suggesting that she was calculating Harry’s state of mind. “Harry, I hope that you won’t think I’m speaking out of turn, but I... feel that you should be aware...” She hesitated for a moment. “You are aware, I presume, of Mrs Prout’s children?”

“Of course,” Harry replied, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“They spent Easter here, of course. And were at Hightrees for Christmas. They... are encountering some difficulty at school. From the other children. Owing to their mother’s engagement here.”

“What sort of difficulty?”

Narcissa regarded him levelly. “Bluntly, they are being called liars. Because they cannot prove that their mother is, in truth, your housekeeper.”

Harry sighed. He was familiar with being called a liar. 

“She is prevented by the Unbreakable Vow from speaking of her occupation, and, to do her due credit, she would not speak of it even if she could. But Aurelia Stanford has it from Prudence Merriville, who has it from her daughter Rosemary, who is a Hufflepuff in Mrs Prout’s daughter’s year that their situation is rapidly becoming insupportable. I naturally inquired of Mrs Prout after I had spoken to Aurelia, and she confirmed it.”

A thought occurred to Harry quickly. “Some photos should be fine, yeah? And a note to them? Kids are ruthless. I mean, Mrs Prout can’t speak of it, but I can.”

“Mrs Prout, as it so chances, already has some photographs. She took them of the children in the garden at Hightrees; you appear in the window behind them. She would never compromise your privacy, Harry. She knows how you value it 

“I’d like to see those.” Harry smiled. “I don’t mind her sending them.”

“I think this is a bit different. She isn’t trying to make me out to be a raving lunatic.”

“Certainly not,” Narcissa agreed. “They will, of course, be coming to stay over the summer holidays, if you are still here.” 

Harry frowned. He hadn’t really thought about how long he’d be staying – hadn’t wanted to assume he was welcome. “I suppose I’ll need to look for a flat or something. I forgot about that. Draco's contacted Praie for me, and they’ve taken care of everything already.”

Narcissa frowned slightly. “If you wish to, then naturally Draco will be pleased to assist you. But I should have hoped that you would realise that you are welcome to treat the Manor as your home for as long as you wish. Of course, the assurance should more properly come from Draco, as he is its master, but I doubt that he will recognise the need to mention it.”

“I love it here, but... I didn’t want to assume anything.”

She smiled gently. “I think, Harry, that I can assure you without fear of contradiction that you are safe to assume anything you wish where my son is concerned.” 

Harry smiled, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “Thanks. I suppose between that and what he said before you arrived... I think so, too.”

Her eyes brows rose, but she didn’t press for any information, and while Harry wanted to share with her what Draco had said, he also wanted to keep it close, something just for him for the time being. Then remembering Kreacher – after mention of the house being taken care of, he asked, “Oh, my house-elf. What happened to him?”

“He is here, of course. When Mrs Prout cleared the house of your personal belongings, the elf returned to the Manor with her. Everything is in the east wing. When you feel equal to the task, I should be pleased to help you go through it, if you wish to do so.” 

Not keen on the idea of having to sift through the pieces of an old life, he recognised that he would still have to sort through and return anything that belonged to Ginny. He was grateful that after explaining the situation to Dewey, she was quite certain they could handle the estate quickly. Narcissa’s offer had taken him off guard a bit, but he appreciated it.

“I’d like that,” Harry replied, the door opening to admit Mrs Prout with some dinner. Narcissa assisted him with drinking his soup; after having been awake for so long, he was tired, worn out from the conversation and the physical strain. He settled comfortably, and fell asleep, his mind full and his heart light.

When he woke a few hours later, it was to a strange hum, and the room lit by a blue screen. He could see the outline of a naked Draco pushing random buttons on a remote control, which did nothing but make the screen flicker for a moment and he smiled slightly. 

He brought his hand to his face to wipe his eyes, and Draco turned to face him, his expression horrified. “Having fun?” Harry asked, Draco simultaneously inquiring, “How do you feel?”

Harry’s smile deepened as he reached for his glasses so he could actually see Draco for a change. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t. And I’m okay. A bit stiff, though.” Harry quirked a sad smile, lamenting his lack of an erection – he’d missed Draco’s hands on him. Realistically he knew it was due as much to the Muggle medications he’d been on, and the physical strain of Ginny’s spell being removed. 

“Could you tolerate physio?”

“We can try,” he offered with a shrug.

Placing the remote on the bedside table, Draco slid out of bed, and Harry’s eyes followed his movements avidly, admiring his lithe body with each movement. At Harry’s side, he started with his feet and ankles like always, the firm pressure slightly uncomfortable, but since he’d been improving considerably, it wasn’t as bad as he knew it could be had Draco not got the Muggle medicines. 

“What were you trying to watch?” Harry asked; conversation had always been the best method of distraction in the past.

“The Meaning of Life.”

“Hermione brought DVDs, then,” he muttered, knowing Luna nor Ron really knew anything about Muggle things. 

“Mmm. Quite a few,” Draco said. “What’s a Monty Python? I couldn’t see a reference to snakes anywhere.”

Harry laughed. “No snakes. That’s just what they call themselves.”

“Hmm.” Draco sounded oddly disappointed. “And what _is_ the meaning of life; do you know?”

Harry took a moment to think about what exactly Draco was asking, then it hit him that Draco seemed to be under the misapprehension that the film was somehow educational. 

“Draco, it’s... a comedy. It’s not supposed to be serious.” 

He appeared to consider Harry’s reply, then said, “There’s probably some sort of profound irony to that, but I confess it escapes me.”

Mirthful laughter shook Harry’s body as Draco moved to his legs. “It’ll make more sense when you watch it.” A bit more awake than he had been, Harry noticed that the room felt different, had more life. Green eyes scanned the room, but nothing seemed off – then his gaze fixed on an antique pedestal, his sang de boeuf resting atop it. Seeing it brought a smile to his face. “That definitely adds some life to the room.”

“I hope you don't mind my having brought it.”

“No. I’m glad you did. Your mum told me the house was cleared out. I’m just glad it’s done with.”

“Mostly done with. The elf separated most of your belongings from hers, but you may wish to go through the rest as well. Some of it may have sentimental connotations.”

“Not really. But I’ll worry about that later.”

He honestly wished he could chuck everything and start over, but he knew he couldn’t. It was an instinctive reaction to everything, the red of betrayal leaving its stain on everything. He couldn’t think about that, though. Draco’s words about their pasts making them the men they were was the truth, and he wanted to move on, make a new life – with Draco. One thought led to another, eventually they settled on what Narcissa had said about Harry being welcome, and the talk about Hightrees being cleaned out reminded him that he probably should confirm what she’d said. He’d spent too much of his life making assumptions, and since such a statement from Narcissa involved Draco as much as it did him, he felt the need to clarify.

“I need to turn you, now,” Draco said.

“All right.” Draco turned him carefully, and he removed his glasses so they wouldn’t dig into his face. “Your mum said she’d help me go through it. I’m not in any hurry, really.” He stopped, still thinking what he should say. “Um, Draco…?” He paused again. “When I was talking with your mum today, she told me about Mrs Prout’s children and their difficulty at Hogwarts – and she said they’d be here over the summer hols if I am, but it got me thinking that I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I mean, I don’t have to worry about Hightrees any more, and I don’t know when I’m supposed to search for a new house... I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do...”

“Anything you want to do. I had presumed you’d be staying here. At least until you’re fully recovered. Particularly given what you said on the way to the party. But if you prefer to be elsewhere...”

“I prefer to be where you are, but I don’t want to assume anything... And I didn’t know if it was... too much. This is new to me.”

“I thought I’d made it clear that I will go wherever you need me. If you wish to be at the Manor, so be it. If you prefer to be elsewhere, there’s nothing to which I need immediate access that can’t be moved.”

“It’s not that.” Harry sighed, realising Draco wasn’t understanding him. “I like being here. I meant – mean – that. I just didn’t want to assume that I was welcome to be here... for... however long you want me.”

“You’re welcome to be her for however long you want to be here. What exactly did my mother say to you?” The question was asked with a sharp tone.

Warmth spread on Harry’s cheeks. “She said it was safe to assume anything as far as you were concerned... She said I was welcome, but... I wanted – needed – you to say it, I suppose. I love you. I don’t want to be anywhere else, but ... I don’t know what we are - lovers, yes, but ... I’m not making any sense, am I?”

“Not really, no.” Draco released his hold on Harry. “All done. You’re skin’s degrading on your back, probably from the amount of time you’ve spent on it. Are you sufficiently comfortable as you are for an hour or so?”

Harry sighed. He hated when Draco changed the subject. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good,” he said, and Harry felt Draco’s fingers stroke his arse lightly, the light touch sending a spark of sensation through him that he hadn’t felt for days, a soft moan escaping his lips. “Would you like me to read to you?”

“Sure.”

“Any preferences?”

“I’m not picky, Draco.”

He snorted in amusement, and asked, “What has my mother been reading to you?”

“Greek stuff. Some French. Sometimes she doesn’t tell me what it’s about, just reads it.”

“She’s been inflicting foreign languages you don’t speak on you?” Draco’s tone was unhappy – that much Harry could tell. 

“I asked her to. She would start translating, and I really just liked hearing her read. She _has_ read things in English.”

“Hmm. Well, which way is your taste running today? Comprehensible, or unintelligible?”

“I’d listen to you recite potion ingredients.” He smiled, and turned his head toward Draco. “No one’s ever read to me before.” He paused, considering. “I don’t think I’ll be awake for long, so probably nothing that I have to think about.”

“I’ve been reading Catullus recently.”

Harry yawned, his agreement slurring slightly. Draco slid back into bed and opened the book. then began reading in smooth, elided, very slightly accented Latin. Harry had no idea what he was saying, but it was pleasant to hear. Eyes closed as he let each sound roll over his skin, Draco’s tone often giving him some sort of insight into the words and their meaning. He supposed that was what Draco had meant about words having a flavour, and they left his palate awash with the faint taste of bitterness and sweetness. He reached over, caressing Draco’s thigh with his thumb, the rest of his fingers balled up, the syringe still sticking out. 

Afraid of another incontinence episode, the moment he felt the pressure on his bladder, he abruptly said, “Draco, I need my bottle.”

“All right,” he said, marking his page. “Can you manage on your own?”

“Yeah, just help me turn, please,” Harry said, the bed shifting as Draco stood up and moved to his side. Carefully he helped Harry turn, then handed him the bottle, his eyes on Harry the whole time. 

Harry flinched slightly, forcing his still-weak muscles to work properly.

“Are you experiencing discomfort when passing urine?” He looked at Harry. “You clearly are. When were you going to tell me?” he demanded irascibly. 

“You asked before I could.”

Draco snorted softly. “You’re flinching and your stream is a little weak. Are you experiencing a burning sensation?”

“No. Just takes more effort.”

Draco frowned. 

“I thought it was ’cause of the magic,” Harry said honestly. “Everything hurt and was difficult.”

“Hmm. It’s possible, I suppose, but I would have expected it to improve in line with the rest of your symptoms. I wonder...” He grimaced.

“What?” Harry asked, concerned.

“There are spells I’d use, ordinarily, for a broad-spectrum. To check on your… ah… plumbing functionality. But clearly I can’t use those. There’s no burning, which would indicate fever. It’s possible that there’s a blockage or stenosis of your urethra. I can check for that the Muggle way, but it’s... well, ‘extremely invasive’ is probably an understatement.”

Nervous, Harry tried to joke. “What, like sticking something in my cock?”

Draco quirked a half smile and took the bottle from Harry. “Exactly like that, actually. The process if called ‘sounding’.”

“Oh, bloody— you’re joking, right?”

“Have I ever joked about your health?”

“It’s not that. _I_ was joking.”

“I know,” he said, his tone indicating he didn’t find it a fit subject for levity. “This procedure, however…”

“Sorry. I’m just wondering what there’ll be left I haven’t had done to me medically by the time this is over.”

“I can safely assure you that I won’t subject you to a hysterectomy.”

“What’s that?”

“Removal of the uterus.”

“Oh,” Harry cracked a smile. “I definitely don’t have one of those. All right, so what will you have to do?”

“You more or less hit it on the head when you said ‘shove something in your cock’. The implement is called a ‘sound’. It’s a safe enough procedure, when it’s performed carefully by someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“You’ve done this one before?” he asked, remembering that Draco had never done the bone marrow biopsy before the day he’d done it to Harry.

“Yes. Curse damage can take many forms.”

Harry nodded. “You know you can do whatever you have to do. I just like knowing what it’s going to be.” Draco smiled faintly. “When do you want to do it?”

“There’s no reason to delay it. I’ll go to London for the equipment and do it tomorrow afternoon, unless you’d rather leave it?”

“I… um… it’s best to know for sure, right? I mean, I know you aren’t going to hurt me.”

“It will probably be uncomfortable.”

“It can’t be worse than I felt before you stuck this in my hand.”

Draco inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I’m going to need to start reducing your dosages again soon. It’s not healthy for you to be on those medications for long.”

He nodded. “Doesn’t hurt as much now. Not like it did, anyway. Just sore now.”

“Good. I’ll start titration this week, then. But I want you to promise me that you’ll tell me if the discomfort becomes too much. I don’t want you on the potions longer than you have to be, but I don’t want you suffering needlessly, either.”

“Yes, Draco, I promise,” he said, smiling.

“I’ll head to London again, then. Henderson’s probably sick of the sight of me,” Draco murmured as he got back into bed.

“Can’t imagine why he would be,” Harry said, flushing.

“Probably because I keep turning up and dragging him out of his clinics to provide equipment at very short notice, all of which he then has to explain to his Muggle supervisors. Though I do appreciate the sentiment.”

“That’s not what I meant… never mind.” His cheeks flared hot. Draco leaned in and kissed him, and he forgot about flirting, or breathing for that matter, and pulled away, his chest rising and falling quickly as firm fingers moved through his hair, mussing it, and making his toes tingle. After turning out the lights, he turned Harry on his side, assuming their usual sleeping position, and they fell asleep.

**~*~*~*~**

In the morning, after a soft, but hungry kiss, Draco left for London, having helped Harry eat breakfast, bathe, and complete his stretches. He felt better than he had the previous days, so instead of going back to sleep immediately, he rested, watching films. Mrs Prout was kind enough to switch DVDs for him, and after lunch, Draco returned, just as a character in the film began shouting, “Infamy! Infamy! They’ve got it in for me.”

Still laughing, Harry looked up after pausing the DVD, and said, “Hey. How was London?”

“Busy. Smelly. Much as usual.” Draco was carrying a bag, and Harry swallowed hard, his courage dissipating slightly. 

“S’ppose this means you’re going to need to... examine me.” He was trying for a light tone, but he heard the discomfort in his own tone.

Draco’s eyebrows rose, then his expression shifted to one of pity, which Harry hated. He didn’t like the situation, but he didn’t want any pity for it. He knew the procedure was needed; he wouldn’t have agreed to it if he didn’t want to be sure there was nothing else wrong with him. 

“Hmm. I may need to do that quite a lot, you realise.”

Harry flushed, the pity forgotten with Draco’s flirtation. “I hope so,” he replied.

“I’m going to need to move you. The procedure needs you to be in a position you won’t be able to hold yourself.”

“All right,” Harry replied, pulling the sheet aside. 

Those piercing grey eyes roamed over Harry’s body in a look that made warmth settle in his stomach, slowly spreading out. Harry grinned in response to the look on Draco’s face. 

“I need to bring a table through. Don’t... move a muscle…” Draco said, grinning ferally. 

He nodded, biting his lip, waiting.

Draco returned a few moments later, pushing a table into the room. He spread a duvet over it, then obtained a pillow, laid down some towels, then began spreading everything out from the kit. 

“Are you ready?” Draco asked. 

“Yeah,” he replied, still grinning, still not moving. 

Draco picked him up after disconnecting the drip and carried him to the table, arranging his body, his legs hanging off the edge. He averted his gaze from the curved rod on the table and looked at the ceiling.

“I did warn you that this will be extremely invasive,” he said, his tone cautionary.

“Yeah,” Harry said, closing his eyes, breathing in and out. He was fine with whatever Draco had to do, even if it was bound to cause discomfiture. No harm would come to him in Draco’s capable hands.

The feeling of cool gel made him flinch slightly, but he was okay. He tried to remain still, listening to Draco’s steady breathing. It was calming, and then he felt Draco take his cock gently, but with a firm hold, and the strangest sensation he’d ever felt, slightly arousing, began to spread through him. His body reacted to it, and he felt himself growing hard as the implement slowly moved into him.

Opening his eyes in curiosity, he saw Draco holding a long silver rod that he was manoeuvring into Harry’s urethra. 

It was like anything he’d ever felt before. “Oh, what the fu— Draco, what are you doing?” He groaned slightly.

“You’re having problems urinating. I’m making sure your urethra isn’t blocked. I did explain.”

“That feels like you’re trying to make me come. Draco—” Harry’s eyes rolled back; he was completely unused to what he was feeling, and he was mortified by his reaction. The look on Draco’s face – all of that intense focus on _him_ — coupled with how much Harry trusted him was too much. Another groan, yanked from deep within him, vibrated in his throat. 

“Just relax, I can’t hurry it. I could do you a lot of dam— Potter, are you getting _hard_?”

Harry’s face was hot. “That’s… oh, fuck—” He stopped abruptly, his thoughts ending as the rod pressed against something inside him that flared and sparked with delicious sensations. 

“Nearly there,” Draco said, the exasperation apparent in his tone.

He groaned again, and he looked at Draco, who was regarding him with bewilderment. 

“How the hell am I supposed to get it out again, now?”

“I-I don't know. I can't even— It’s… fuck. Can I come like this?” Harry asked, his face growing red again – Draco’s, too.

“I’ve seen it done.”

Harry inhaled sharply, irritated that his first erection in a week had come from a medical procedure. 

“Do you want me to…?” Draco coughed. “The options are limited. I don’t want to masturbate you with that in place; it could hurt you. So either we wait for you to lose your erection – which doesn’t look likely to happen imminently—” A disapproving look was on Draco’s face. “Or—” He flushed brighter, “—I could massage your prostate. I don’t think ice is an option.”

“Yes,” Harry said, his breathing erratic. 

“Yes, what, Potter?” he asked, the irritation clear.

“Do it. M-massage my prostate.”

Draco inhaled, changing positions slightly, now standing between Harry’s legs. He watched as Draco added some of the lubrication to his gloved fingers, one handed, then he stopped. “Have you ever had a prostate examination?”

“N-no.”

“You do _understand_ what I need to do to massage your prostate?”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry panted. 

“Try to relax. It may be uncomfortable at first.”

Those pale, slender fingers that Harry had dreamed about began to prod at his arse slowly, and, as he felt the slow push, his nerves completely on end, he moaned softly, the sensations driving him mad. He _was_ slightly uncomfortable at first, feeling Draco’s finger moving in and out of him, but he relaxed into it, savouring each movement. When Draco added another finger, he bit his lip, swallowing a gasp, and felt his erection flagging slightly. He looked down at Draco, confused – in one hand he held one end of the rod that was inside him, his palm supporting his cock, and the other was slowly moving in and out of his arse. 

“Don’t worry. That’s normal. Your body’s not used to have things _in_ here.”

Harry settled again, groaning loudly when he felt the first bit of pressure against his prostate from both sides, and he was lost to the sensation, his entire body on fire with the need to release. He wanted to touch Draco, to kiss him, but he couldn’t, and it was maddening. 

“Draco,” he panted, his entire world flipping upside down as the most intense, slightly painful rush he’d ever felt accompanied his orgasm. Colours sparked behind his eyelids, a solar eclipse of feeling that spread out until he could only lay waiting. 

Once he had his head again and Draco had safely removed the sound, he asked, “So does that mean you just took my virginity?”

Draco looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, a real laugh, one that Harry wanted to see and hear more of. “I suppose you could say so,” he replied. 

“Shame it had to be _that way_ ,” Harry lamented.

Pale eyebrows rose.

“I... “ Harry flushed again. “I just mean... that’s not really ... um, how I expected it to happen.”

That pleasant laugh of Draco’s filled the room again. “There’s plenty of time for the other. Besides, you don't really lose your virginity until you’ve done me, too.”

Harry hadn’t really thought about fucking Draco, and images ran across his mind’s eye, making his brain feel like it had stopped working. Until Draco hadn’t mentioned it, he hadn’t realised how much he wanted that, too. 

Draco began cleaning him up, and he found his voice again, after clearing his throat. “Um, you know... I never really-- that was new,” he said awkwardly.

“You’d never had a metal rod inserted into your urethra before? I’m far from surprised.”

“Um... that, but I mean... I think I’d let you do anything you wanted.” Trying to explain – to a quizzical looking Draco – what had been so arousing about the procedure wasn’t coming easily. He thought it should: they were just words to express his feelings, the sensations, but he was coming up short on how to tell Draco what he had felt and had been thinking.

His statement elicited a puzzled expression from Draco. “Loath as I am to disappoint you, Potter, my sexual tastes really aren’t quite as deviant as you appear to think.”

“That’s— I just mean... you wouldn’t hurt me and knowing that is—” Harry swallowed, “arousing. I don’t know how to explain it. I didn’t think anything...”

“I think I get the general gist. Let me put you back to bed; or do you feel equal to sitting up for a while, today?”

“Bed’s fine. Want to finish the film.”

Draco nodded and carried him back to the bed. Harry kissed him softly before he left, then started _Carry on Cleopatra_ again. 

For dinner, he had his first solid meal, a fabulous poached salmon. It was later in the evening when Draco returned, took Harry to bathe, then stretched him.

“Would you like your pyjamas?” he asked afterward, but Harry declined, blushing. He liked sleeping naked with Draco. They settled in bed to watch a film, and Harry fell asleep less than ten minutes after it had started. He woke up when Draco shifted him into their usual sleeping position, but he fell asleep again quickly, feeling the press of soft lips against his ear. 

Harry spent most of his weekend in bed still, and his body had finally lost the residual soreness from the magic. He was sitting up more, wearing clothes, except to sleep, and Sunday evening, Hermione came to sit with him for a while. They spent a few hours chatting, in which Harry learned that Draco had given Hermione complete access to his personal vaults in order to obtain the TV and DVDs. He shared with her, reluctantly, his desire to have sex, talked about Draco mentioning Harry fucking him, and even if he was flaming red the whole time, he felt better for having talked to her. She, while not without her typical words of caution, gave him some useful information on positions they might be able to try for penetration. He tried to avoid discussing Ron, but he let her vent her frustration; she seemed to need it. He wasn’t entirely certain what the big problems between them and the small problems were, and he really wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But he listened, offering what few words of advice he could. 

He was shocked to learn that Hermione had received a letter from Krum, and he had a feeling who had prompted that. He reserved mentioning that to Hermione and cautioned her to avoid telling Ron – it would just upset things further. Fortunately for him, Hermione was supportive of his relationship – or whatever it was – with Draco. She said Ron would come round eventually. Harry wasn’t sure Ron would ever get used to it, but he hoped he’d keep his thoughts on the matter to himself. 

Having left just after dinner, Harry lay down and fell asleep, waking when Draco’s fingers ghosted across his forehead. He smiled, was taken to be bathed, and they settled back in bed after his stretches. He didn’t know what was coming in the next week, and he’d been updated on the progress Draco and Bill had made so far on the counter-curse, each day seeming to draw him closer to either his death or a life where he’d have magic again. Unusually quiescent, Harry lay with one arm wrapped around Draco, finally being able to hold onto him, too. Soft lips pressed against his forehead, and Harry looked at Draco's inquiring and increasingly concerned expression with his heart in his mouth, and in a voice that seemed to come from the other side of the moon, said “'I want you to fuck me.”

To Be Continued…


	27. Chapter 27

Beta’d by my peculiar other half, Romany. :)

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WARNING: This chapter contains descriptions of a medical procedure that some may consider squick. Please read at your own discretion.

****

Chapter 27: Learning One’s Worth

Warmth, not the burning of magic, engulfed Harry. Skin against skin, breath ruffled his hair, tickling him slightly, and he shifted, as much as his sore body would allow, and there was a deep inhale from behind him, then a choke, brief gasping inhales from Draco. That nearly every time he’d woken up, Draco had been with him still, made Harry feel on top of the world, even in his current state. He wasn’t alone, wasn’t being left alone, and it made him feel loved, cherished, wanted. 

“You okay?” Harry asked.

“Mmph. Yes. How do you feel?” Aloe-scented breath ghosted across Harry’s face.

“All right. Still sore, but skin doesn’t hurt as much.”

Gentle fingers stroked his abdomen lightly, and his stomach fluttered in response. “Good. Do you think you'll be able to tolerate a sponge bath?” Draco asked.

“That’d be brilliant,” he said enthusiastically. He felt sticky, like there was a film of grime covering his skin, despite his having been inactive for the past few days. 

“Mm. Good. I shall fetch some towels, then.” Draco yawned. 

“I woke you up,” Harry said as the security and warmth of Draco’s body disengaged from his.

“I was only dozing.”

“Mmm,” Harry hummed sceptically. “How are _you_ feeling?”

“Oddly accomplished. I have perfected a new hex.” He stretched, and Harry cast him a questioning look that morphed into one of appreciation. He wanted to run his hands across Draco’s arched back and chest, feel him bending to his touch. “The members of the gutter press camped at the gates might as well be a source of entertainment as well as an annoyance.”

Harry groaned in irritation, hating that they couldn’t leave well enough alone. 

“They can’t actually get _in_ ,” Draco assured him. “And three of them will now spontaneously lose control of their bowels at the mention of your name for the next week or so.”

Horrified, Harry said, “Draco, um, you can’t keep doing that.” Years ago, Harry would probably have encouraged him, but he didn’t want any negative consequences to befall Draco should Aurors decide to investigate the press’s sudden, strange afflictions after leaving the Malfoy grounds.

Pale eyebrows rose. “I fail to see any reason why.”

Sputtering slightly, Harry tried to grasp the words to explain why it was wrong for Draco to continue on as he had been. There was something electric and pleasing about Draco’s level of ferocity when it came to Harry’s wellbeing, but he couldn’t square it with his own conscience – and he didn’t want anything to happen to Draco. “Because you’ll end up hexing and cursing a lot of people if you hex every one of them that tries to print something about me. I am always going to be ‘news’ to them, whether I like it or not. I hate it; I always have, but they don’t change.”

A smile, with a hint of wickedness, spread on Draco’s face. “Then this would probably be a bad time to tell you about the further two who now spontaneously experience orgasm at the mention of your name.”

If Harry could have lifted his hands, they’d have been against his face, a means to hide his embarrassment and frustration. His stomach turned in a way he wasn’t sure was good or bad, and, even with the appreciation that Draco only sought to protect him, he knew he couldn’t let things continue as they were. 

“What? Why... would you?”

“It seemed appropriate.” 

Harry disagreed.

“Um, there’s really only one person... um—” Harry stopped, unable to continue piecing that sentence together. “Please don't hex or curse any more of them. Draco? Please? I don't want Aurors coming after you.”

Draco huffed slightly. “They’re hardly likely to make the connection. I doubt any of the affected parties will be willing to seek medical assistance.”

“That's not the point,” Harry said, his frustration with Draco’s skewed sense of right and wrong mounting. “I really appreciate the thought, but... You can’t hex or curse every witch and wizard who intends to write something bad about me or you or—”

“I can.” 

Harry looked at him for a moment, realising Draco had elected to respond to his statement as though Harry had disputed his ability to cast the spells, rather than the fact that Harry would prefer Draco not use magic against the stupid tossers.

“It’s all relatively low-grade magic, in terms of power required,” Draco added, for all the world as if he were simply seeking to reassure Harry of his competence.

“That’s not what I meant. I don’t want another Rita Skeeter.”

“There won’t be one. I’m making sure of that.” 

Lips parted to speak, but no words came. Harry understood what Draco was doing, but he didn’t agree with it. Torn, divided, that was the best way to describe how he was feeling. He’d never had anyone care so much whether he was slandered – especially a person who had done it in the past, and it made him stop to appreciate how much things had changed over the years. 

“I won’t have you maligned, Potter. The sooner the gutter press realises that, the happier and more fruitful its members’ lives will be,” Draco was continuing. “They’ll get the point sooner or later.” He clearly didn’t much care which.

“I don’t care what they say. As long as you know the truth, I couldn’t care less what anyone else thinks.”

Long, pale arms folded; his lover was magnificent in his anger – and still completely naked. He looked just as dangerous nude and wandless as he would have fully robed and brandishing his new wand. Slightly thrilled at the sight, Harry had to force a smile away – that was not the time to appreciate the planes and angles of Draco’s body or his air of capable menace. 

“I won’t tolerate it. They will treat you with the consideration you deserve, or they will suffer the consequences.”

Growing tired of arguing, Harry said softly, “As long as you do, I don’t care.”

“I won’t have it,” Draco repeated stubbornly.

“And what happens when they figure it out and start up the ‘Draco Malfoy is trying to kill Harry Potter’ nonsense again?”

“They’ll wish they hadn’t.”

“And you think I want them printing rubbish about you?”

“It won't last long if they try it. The legal agents I retain aren’t so much lawyers as slavering Sphinxes.”

“I don’t like it. A few years ago, I wouldn’t have cared, but I don’t want anything to happen to you because of me.” Harry sighed; he was losing energy and he didn’t want to waste it on arguing a point that should have been completely obvious. “I don’t have the energy to argue with you any more."

Draco quirked a smile. “That’s a first.”

“Yeah.” Harry was just thankful that Draco hadn’t misinterpreted or misunderstood what he’d said. “What’s happened since the party?” A variety of questions ran through his thoughts, but he needed to focus on one thing at a time.

“A lot of stupidity and speculation. The Weasley girl has been arrested.” The satisfaction was clear to Harry, and he had to admit that he felt it, too.

“Oh?”

“On suspicion of using Dark Magic, and attempted murder. They won’t make either charge stick, of course, but she has the dubious honour of being the most hated woman in Britain. Weasley and Granger have been calling daily, of course.”

“She could have killed me, couldn’t she?”

“Yes, but she lacked intent. Murder is a crime of intent. Without the requisite mens rea, the actus reus becomes... less significant. It wouldn't even have been involuntary manslaughter.” He looked disgusted. “Shacklebolt has been in contact daily, too. My mother is rather enjoying that. We now have Auror protection.”

“Who?”

“Weasley and Dawlish have been with us every day since we brought you back here.” Draco rolled his eyes. “And Weasley and I are making satisfactory progress on the counter-curse for this variant on _Malleus Mentis_.”

“I don’t suppose you’d want to call them by name, would you? At least so I know _which_ Weasley you’re talking about?”

Draco appeared nettled. “Auror Weasley and curse-breaker Weasley respectively.”

A snort of amusement broke the silence, and Harry said, “It’s a start.”

“Lovegood has been repeatedly. And, of course, Mrs Weasley has been in frequent contact.” 

“She has?” That confused Harry a bit.

“She seems to think that her treacle tart would do you a world of good. And she probably wants to grovel in apology for the reprehensible conduct of her spawn.” Draco’s tone and the change in his expression seemed to imply that he considered grovelling the least she could do.

“I don’t think I want to see her just yet. Wouldn’t mind seeing Hermione or Ron or Luna, though. When I’m awake a bit longer, anyway.” He took a moment, considering, then, knowing he needed to make arrangements in the event that something did happen to him, added, “I’d like Hermione to go ahead and handle speaking with Praie, if that’s okay.” Draco nodded and began to move toward the bathroom. “And about changing... um...” he tried to think of the proper word, “…Power of Attorney?”

“You wish to alter the terms of her Power of Attorney? Praie can handle it, of course, but—”

Harry looked at Draco. “To you.”

Stopping, as though there was an invisible wall between himself and the bathroom, Draco’s face went completely unreadable. “That’s... a significant change.”

“Hermione’s got enough problems. And you’ll make the right decision for me if I can’t.”

Draco inclined his head, then continued to the bathroom. A few moments later, he returned with towels and a sponge.

“I’m going to roll you to one side so that I can put these down. Then I’ll roll you onto them. Can you tolerate that?”

”Should be fine, yeah. Your mum held me up for a while today and it was ... okay."

“Did she?” Draco asked as he pulled the fine sheet back, then started to shift Harry to his side. The movement was still slightly painful for Harry, mainly because he still felt like one large bruise, but he held back the groan, though it cost him all the effort he could make; he didn’t want Draco to start fretting again.

After setting everything up, Draco left Harry on the towels to fetch a couple of basins of water. While he was filling them, Harry said, “I can move my fingers today.”

“Good. Any pins and needles or increased numbness?”

“No, not since before the medication.”

“Even better. That means your circulation is satisfactory, despite the immobility and lack of physiotherapy.” 

Returning to his side, Draco knelt beside the bed. “And do you feel comfortable with the rate of reduction of your painkillers?” The first few careful strokes of the sponge against Harry’s skin took some getting used to, but he eased into it, remaining distracted easily with the conversation.

“S’ppose. I’m just glad my skin isn’t as sensitive. Duvet was a nightmare.”

“You’re recovering well.” It sounded almost like praise; as if it were something Harry had chosen to do and put active effort into.

“It’ll be like this next time, too, won’t it?” Harry sighed slightly, his discomfort prompting a poor attempt at humour. “It didn’t hurt this much when I died.”

The sudden absence of expression on Draco’s face was confusing.

“I... will need to ask you about that, one day. I need to be certain of any lingering effects on your physiology.”

“Nothing to tell, really,” Harry said. He knew Draco hadn’t asked him to say anything then, but Harry didn’t think there was anything terribly important to say about the whole thing or learn from it. He’d been cleared at every routine medical since the end of the battle in the Great Hall, but he was coming to find that that really didn’t mean anything. “Voldemort cast the Killing Curse, but he couldn’t use the Elder Wand against me. He wasn’t the Master, even if he had it. I... this sounds ridiculous. I haven’t told anyone about what happened. But I was in King’s Cross with Dumbledore. We talked. And he gave me a choice: I could take the train with him, or I could come back. I don’t really... understand what happened. I just woke up and heard Voldemort order someone to see if I was dead, and your mum saved me. Said I was dead.” As he had been speaking, Harry had noticed that Draco’s gaze had shifted; he was no longer looking at Harry’s face, and that was alarming. Harry couldn’t understand why Draco was so uncomfortable.

Draco nodded tightly. “Hallucination isn’t uncommon in near-death experiences. Nor is the... conviction of choice.”

“I don’t remember most of it now.”

“That’s understandable.” 

Characteristically steady hands had begun to tremble against Harry’s body, and he began to worry. “Draco?”

“Hmm.” He didn’t look up. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Is this water too hot?” What had only been conjecture to Harry had just been confirmed by Draco’s deflection: something was wrong.

“Why are you shaking?” he asked, not wanting the conversation to derail.

“I hadn’t realised how draughty it was in here. I don’t make a practice of wandering around the house naked, generally.” 

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’re perfectly at liberty to ask my mother. I am confident that she’d remember it if I had.” A lump formed in Harry’s stomach.

“You were fine until I made a joke about my dying not hurting as much.”

Enamel ground on enamel, and Draco said, “I need to change this water.” He stood and left the room abruptly, leaving Harry with a building sense of dread. 

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Harry didn’t understand what the problem was. Since all he could do was wait, Harry closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. The web of confusion grew even more convoluted with each thought he parried, and he opened his eyes at the sound of Draco’s footfalls against the carpet, observing with dismay that Draco’s inscrutable mask had slipped into place again.

“Better?” Harry asked, unsure what else he could say. 

“I also modified a jinx which causes the victim to erupt in perianal boils. I was saving that one for tomorrow,” Draco said as he returned to the bedside. 

“Mmm," Harry hummed in confusion. The morning after Draco had abruptly left the room after Harry had realised Draco wasn’t returning his affection because he’d wanted to, Draco had done the same thing – had started the conversation where they’d left off, only this time, he seemed to have reverted to what they’d been talking about before he’d become distressed. 

“There’s a singularly obnoxious fellow with artificially blond hair and foul taste in robes,” Draco was saying. “Even Dawlish dislikes him.” 

“Is Ron playing this game, too?” Harry asked, wondering if the statement about Dawlish not liking the man, either, meant that he was participating in hexing the press. He may not have understood what had upset Draco, but he wasn’t going to push; he’d learnt his lesson. 

“Certainly not. Dawlish took the view that it wouldn’t appeal to his sense of humour. He doesn’t even know about it.” 

“Ron hasn’t got much of a sense of humour about anything any more,” Harry said, more to himself than by way of response to what Draco had said.

“I can’t claim to know him well enough to have any insight on that point. I may get to know him better over the next few days, of course.”

“Why’s that?” Harry asked.

“They’re staying here,” Harry sputtered in surprise slightly. “With four others. The Department takes your safety seriously.” 

For once, Harry was able to interpret what Draco really meant: “ _I_ take your safety seriously”. His letting the Aurors stay in the Manor was a big gesture, to Harry’s mind. The words didn’t need to be spoken; he’d shown Harry that much with his talk about hexing reporters. He wondered briefly if Draco had spoken about it out of some obscure need to obtain Harry’s approval. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, some of the dread dissolving like salt in water.

Draco shrugged. “It doesn’t discommode me. My mother keeps them at bay, and the house-elves take care of them; and when they’re not officially working, they entertain themselves by looking for Dark relics, though, of course, I’m not supposed to know that. I should be thanking you, in fact. Mrs Prout brought my tea.”

Harry flushed. 

“I intend to invite Granger to join her husband,” Draco stated, firmly adopting a new topic of conversation which could not possibly lead back to previous subjects.

Harry went with it. “She’ll want to see the library.”

Draco snorted. “She’ll need an armed escort. Some of those books are _sentient_. And temperamental.”

“Maybe not, then. She’s pregnant.”

“I know. That much has been obvious for a good four months. She appears to be anaemic.”

“I didn’t... know. Until before the party. But that’s your field... and I’ve… been a bit preoccupied.”

“Quite understandably.”

Realising that he didn’t know whether Draco was aware of Ron and Hermione’s marital problems, he decided he should say something. “Um... they’re having problems. Ron and Hermione.”

“I know. That much has also been obvious for several months. I doubt they were ever compatible.”

“No, probably not. It’s funny, though. Ron was so jealous of Krum in fourth year. But he... never really tried. He’s my best mate...."

“Which of course excuses him of any and all possible failings," Draco remarked sarcastically, but without any real bite. It seemed to have been reflexive rather than intended to sting. 

“No, I was just thinking that she probably needs someone who _is_ content to sit and watch her read for hours. That’s what Krum did. Ron probably just gets narked or something.”

“Very probably. Krum, on the other hand, _did_ consider it high entertainment. I never understood that. None of us did. Strange chap, Krum.” 

Harry smiled. “Maybe he just liked seeing her happy in what she was doing. I don’t know.”

“I was surprised that Weasley didn’t stay with the Brown girl.” 

The first real surge of laughter moved through Harry with lightning-like speed and reverberated in the bedroom. “I wonder if she still calls him Won-Won.”

Visible relief showed in Draco’s expression, for what, though, Harry didn’t know. “I daresay she does. I could find out.” 

“I don’t care, really. It always irritated me. But they were matched well. He’s daft as a brush, and she was just as bad.”

“She was a halfwit.” 

“Mmm,” Harry agreed. “Um... do you feel like brushing my teeth?”

“If you like. Once I’ve finished here, though.” 

“Yes, please. My mouth feels foul.” Draco nodded. Harry sighed as the sponge ran the length of his thigh. It was better than nothing, but just not the same as actual bathing. “I like baths much better.”

“As soon as I can move you to the bathroom, you shall have one.”

Harry nodded, inhaled slowly, and steeled himself to ask the question on the tip of his tongue. “What happened when Bill did the scan?” Draco took a measured breath. “I was looking at you, and... I remember letting go and then, nothing but pain.” 

“Do you recall a remark I made about the results of some of the models I was running suggesting a complication? A beneficial influence?”

“Yeah.”

“It transpires that those results were entirely correct. There _is_ another enchantment on you. It’s been there for over a decade.” 

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I... don’t recall anyone ever casting anything...”

“No, you wouldn’t. It was Severus Snape who placed it on you.” 

“Snape?” Harry was shocked. He remembered the Shrieking Shack, but before that, Snape had always hated Harry. Now that he was older, wiser, he could understand it, but it still didn’t change the disbelief he felt then. “Right! He hated me.”

“I don’t doubt it. The colour of the enchantment suggests a certain ambivalence of attitude, but the purpose is unmistakable. And the power.” 

“What do you mean? What is that? Like Magical Theory?” Harry asked, curious; he’d never heard anything of the sort.

“What is what?” 

“How can you know the purpose and ambivalence of attitude just from the colour?”

Draco grimaced. “It’s not colour, in the literal sense. It’s like... colours of sound. The flavour of a word. You can either feel it or you can’t. I can. Weasley can.” 

Interesting though that notion might have been, Harry dismissed it as unimportant for the moment. “So you’re saying he cast some sort of protective charm on me?"

“Yes, a very powerful charm.”

“And Bill’s scan confirmed that? You said Ginny’s spell was warping it, though… the one I got hit with in Brighton.”

“This charm of Snape’s is what slowed its progress down; you remember that we were unclear about that being part of the mutation? We were right to be: if Snape’s spell hadn’t been there first, this… _Malleus Corporis_ would have acted just as quickly and brutally as _Malleus Mentis_ does. The damage would have been irretrievable within weeks. He’s saved your life. Which was the purpose of the spell, of course. Generic, but very powerful.” 

Harry nodded numbly in response. He couldn’t understand Snape doing something _kind_ for him. 

“Is that something that has to be removed, too? Fuck, I don’t know if I can take this twice more."

The shuttered expression fell across Draco’s face abruptly. “No, that should be fine. We’re not sure _how_ we’d remove it, in any case. And it’s been there for so long that it’s fused with you." He paused. “I need to turn you, now.”

“All right.” Harry bit his lip as Draco turned him over, stifling the groan of discomfort. It wasn’t Draco’s fault; he was being gentle. Once he was settled on his stomach, Draco began to wash his back, and Harry closed his eyes, pangs of hunger beginning to taunt him.

“Um... is there any more of that soup from before?”

“I expect so. I’ll send for Mrs Prout once I’ve finished bathing you.” 

“Mmm,” Harry hummed in response. He kept his eyes closed, eventually drifting off to sleep.

He woke when Draco turned him over, offering a sleepy smile. Draco re-positioned the sheet for Harry’s modesty, and Mrs Prout came in as Draco was helping Harry sit up, and he flushed brilliantly, surprised that Draco hadn’t covered himself at all at her presence. She left them alone again, and, with the attention he gave everything else, Draco fed Harry slowly, then cleaned his teeth for him. Mrs Prout returned to gather everything, shortly thereafter, too, much to Harry’s embarrassment.

He looked at his hands; Draco seemed completely comfortable in his nudity, but Harry had never been one to give of that part of himself to just anyone. “I’ve just got used to you seeing me naked and now Eleanor comes in and… your mum. And they… see you, too.” 

Draco gave him a blank look – genuinely blank, rather than inscrutable. “My mother saw me naked on a daily basis for years.”

“I never… had that. It’s just… _odd_ for me. That’s all. I like it with you... just not other people.”

The blond glanced at the sheet as if to confirm for his own peace of mind that it _was_ covering Harry decently and he wasn’t misremembering having placed it. “Are you trying to say that you’d rather I put on a robe when Mrs Prout is around?” 

”No. She’s... okay. She’s like your mum. I just thought you... didn’t— Discretion, you said.”

“This is hardly a public venue. And neither of them is remotely interested in looking at me.” He sounded oddly nonplussed; as if he didn't entirely understand Harry's point, but was prepared to accept it nonetheless. 

Flushing brightly, Harry bit his lip and said, “I am.” 

Draco smiled slowly. “Good. Between you and me, I have a passing interest in looking at you, too.”

Harry’s face grew even hotter, and he bit his lip again, smiling. Grey eyes lowered, roaming across his body, then dropped to his sheet-covered cock, and Harry, tired as he was, only felt a fleeting sensation of warmth at the look. 

Draco turned off the lights, then slid into bed, his skin warm against Harry’s. They regarded each other for a long moment, Harry curious, before Draco’s lips were against his, slow, careful, but no less tantalising for their tenderness. There was something about it, while not the animalistic passion of their first few kisses, that still held the same note of possession, and Harry, ready to lose every bit of breath in his lungs, soaked up the affection, a reassurance that even with the worsening of his condition, Draco still wanted him. And for the first time in his life, he understood the pleasure of such a simple thing as a kiss – no requirements for anything more, just the press of lips, and tongues dancing around one another in a rhythm that both parties set.

When Draco pulled back, still placing kisses, ones that lingered along his jaw, or that reached his forehead, Harry looked at him, their breaths mingling, dispersing and gathering again. “What’s got into you?” Harry asked. “Not that I’m complaining…”

“I should hope not.”

“Never get tired of this,” Harry murmured.

Draco smiled – something Harry would never take for granted, along with a lot of other things – and kissed him again. He felt needed, and he, too, needed exactly what Draco was giving. 

What was left of Harry’s energy began to wane, until he was rolled over to his side gently, a soft groan forced from him. He didn’t mind, though. He liked Draco being wrapped around him, keeping him warm and safe. He smiled, humming softly at the kisses to his shoulders and neck, eventually falling asleep.

**~*~*~*~**

The following morning, Harry woke abruptly, his bladder having released its contents. He groaned softly, and felt Draco stir behind him, frustrated that he had woken him. Instinctively, Harry tried to run his fingers through his hair, embarrassed, and found that he was able to lift his arm fully, though it still took a lot of energy. Draco asked Harry if he thought he could handle a proper bath, and Harry said yes: he wanted to try one, and he knew that he’d have to be removed from the bed so that it could be stripped and remade anyway. Mrs Prout was called, much to Harry’s embarrassment, although he understood why, to run the bath and follow with the drip. Carrying Harry and handling the drip stand was impossible, and he, unfortunately, was incapable of manoeuvring it.

Once in the water, he sighed in appreciation, its warmth easing some of the soreness from his body.

“I’ve missed this,” he said sleepily.

Each movement of the sponge against his skin was gentle. It felt good to be clean again, felt good to have Draco touching him again. He noted also how much more rested Draco appeared, and told him. 

“I’m fine. I keep telling you, Potter; I’ve slept in far worse circumstances. If you’d ever trained as a Healer, you’d understand.”

“Maybe,” Harry said. Closing his eyes briefly, he imagined being back in bed with Draco wrapped around him, and murmured softly, “I like sleeping with you.” 

“Then sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

So after his bath, and eating breakfast on the sofa, with Draco wrapped around him, he did. He was woken after an hour or so to meet with an efficient young woman called Dewey, who did her best not to appear overawed, and kept her eyes fixed firmly above his collarbones, which Harry appreciated, to instruct her on the sale of Hightrees and the transference of Power of Attorney from Hermione to Draco. Mrs Prout assisted him with marking all of the appropriate paperwork. After she had left, Draco returned, and Harry went back to sleep.

When he woke again, he was lying on his back in the bed again, and turned his head, surprised that he had been able to do it, and saw Draco in the chair beside the bed, appearing pensive. Harry smiled, blinking to adjust to the light.

“Hey.”

“How are you feeling?”

“All right,” Harry replied as Draco stood, reaching to draw the sheet just above his navel.

Harry’s brow furrowed, wondering what was wrong. Draco’s face had taken on that lost, empty look, and he dared not say anything. 

Draco’s gaze was fixed on Harry’s cheekbone, refusing to look him in the eye. “You’ve spoken of regretting our history,” he said abruptly. “I can’t regret anything that’s happened in our pasts, because it’s the culmination of all the things we’ve done and been and thought that have led us to who and what and where we are now. And where we are now is… everything.” He paused, and swallowed. When he went on, his face was as expressionless and his voice as inflectionless as if he were an automaton. “I trust you realise your importance and worth. I also trust that you know how central you are to my existence. You define me. There’s no one and nothing more important than you. That— Remember that, please.”

Draco never looked up, never said anything else, and never gave Harry a moment to think or answer, for he was striding toward the door, and had it open before Harry could find his voice, closing it even as Harry called out, “Draco!” 

He stared at the door for a moment, his thoughts a maelstrom of revelations, about Draco and about their relationship, or whatever it was they had together. Harry hadn’t really sought a definition before, but for some reason he wanted one in that moment. His mind conjured memories from the last few months, of his interactions with Draco, and Draco’s responses to him; and suddenly, as Christmas – Draco’s reaction to Harry’s gift – flew across his mind, he recalled Draco’s reaction the previous night to his talking about death, and it all made sense: Draco was incapable of talking about his emotions and feelings, incapable of processing or conveying them unprepared. It hadn’t been about rejection or anger when he had left so precipitously, but his inability to be as open as Harry, at least with his words – his actions always murmured their meaning even when there was no voice to be heard. 

As though it had been wrapped tightly, the bindings around his heart seemed to untwine, making him feel lighter and freer than he had for weeks, and it felt damned good to know that Draco cared – loved Harry as much as Harry loved him. Love might not have been the actual word Draco had used, but the meaning was the same, as far as Harry was concerned. What had been said – and given with his broken declaration – was precious, a treasure that Harry wanted to preserve, to etch into his memory.

He smiled, happy, consumed by warmth. Distracted by his bladder, with some effort, he reached for his bottle and relieved himself, then settled again, closing his eyes, relishing the things Draco had said, replaying them. _There is no one and nothing more important than you._ Harry smiled again; he’d never been central to anyone’s world, and even though he’d felt it sometimes when Draco looked at him, it had been confirmed, and it made his heart sing. He had a few moments of feeling like he was floating, the weight of his situation again lifting, before the bedroom door opened. 

“Good afternoon, Harry. You appear to be feeling better,” Narcissa said.

He flushed – his state of undress in the presence of anyone other than Draco always drew blood to his cheeks. “I am, thank you.”

She nodded. “I’m very pleased to hear it. Do you feel equal to some correspondence?”

“I think so. From who?”

She smiled again. “One appears to be from Millicent Bulstrode. The other is from The Burrow.” 

“Dudley, then. All right,” he said with a nod. Narcissa’s eyebrows rose inquiringly. “My cousin. He’s married Millicent,” he clarified.

“How remarkable. Still, I’m pleased to know that she got over Draco. She was quite convinced when she was fourteen that they were destined to marry. I was left with no alternative but to be rather blunt. Which would you like to see first?” 

“Dudley’s, I suppose.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Molly had to say yet. 

She opened the envelope, and turned her attention back to Harry. “Would you like me to read it to you, or merely hold it?”

“Read it, if you don’t mind. I can move a bit more, but it still takes a bit of effort.”

Her lips quirked up again. “As you wish.” She cleared her throat and began to read.

“Dear Harry. I should of wrote before—” her eyebrows shot up, “—but I didn’t know what was happening with you or where you was. Then it was in the _Prophet_ about you being at Malfoy Manor. Mils didn’t believe it at first but then they all started saying it so we reckoned it were worth a chance. I hope you’re doing better than they say you are. It sounds like a right mess. I hope it’s not true that it were your girlfriend what did it, too. I know we never got on, but nobody deserves fucking over like that. Mils says if anyone can fix it, it’ll be Draco. He sounds like a proper prick to me, but she reckons he’s okay.” Narcissa coughed delicately and went on; Harry’s face had taken on a shade that could have rivalled his uncle Vernon’s when he was angry. “She says he’s about the cleverest bloke she ever knew who wasn’t a Ravenclaw. She also says watch your back, he’s gayer than a treeful of clabberts on a permanent Cheering Charm. And she says he was sort of obsessed with you in school so you’re probably his type.” Harry didn’t dare look at Narcissa, then. “I told her she’s barking, but she insisted and said she wouldn’t address the envelope unless I put it in. She said she’d better address the envelope because Malfoy Manor’s got all these big-bastard protective charms and shit and she didn’t reckon anything'd get through that wasn't addressed by someone familiar. I never knew your magic had a flavour, but that’s what she says it is. Anyway, I hope you’re doing okay. Half the papers say you’re dying, but even Mils says they make up most of it, and she reckons she’d of heard from Pans if that’d been true. She asked Pans if you was at the Manor and Pans changed the subject so she reckons that confirms all the rumours. Slytherins, eh?” He thought he heard a quiver of amusement in Narcissa’s voice, but didn’t risk stealing a glance: it could still have been horror. “I just wanted to tell you as well that we've got a kid – a little boy called Aloysius – and we reckon he’s a wizard. Well, bit of a clue when he turned my hair orange that time he got hold of her wand. Be a right laugh if he ended up in Gryffindor, but Mils reckons Hufflepuff. Neither of us is Ravenclaw material, and she says if he takes after me he’ll have the political nous of a Flobberworm.” He was fairly sure _that_ was amusement. “I don’t know why she puts up with me sometimes. Anyway, I just wanted to say I’ve heard a bit of what’s going on, and I’m sorry, and I hope you’re doing okay. If you want to owl me sometime or something that’d be brilliant. Cheers. Dudley.”

Narcissa blinked for a moment – Harry was still mortified by Dudley’s choice of words – and she said, “What a remarkable missive.”

She definitely sounded entertained rather than offended. Relieved, Harry chuckled in response. “He’s never been very bright.”

“Hmmm,” she replied. “Would you like to reply?”

Harry shrugged. “I suppose. If you don’t mind. I really do hate asking you for everything.”

“Nonsense, Harry. It’s a pleasure. I haven’t felt genuinely useful for years, and it’s quite lovely. Now, I will only be a moment: I need to fetch a quill and parchment.”

Nodding, Harry tried to sit up a bit higher on his pillows. He immediately noticed the new addition to the bedroom: a large, flat screen TV. He reached for his glasses and put them on, shocked that Draco had allowed Muggle electronics inside the Manor. 

Narcissa returned, and took a seat once again. When she indicated she was ready, Harry took a moment to gather his thoughts. He wanted to defend Draco, but he also knew he had to be careful what he said.

“Dudley, thanks for writing. Millicent is right, you can’t believe everything in the _Prophet_. I’m doing all right. It’s been a big change, but nothing I’m not comfortable with. I quite like living here.” Narcissa smiled faintly. “Ginny isn’t responsible fully for what happened, but what she did nearly killed me. Draco was able to figure it out, though. He’s as clever as Millicent said, but he’s nothing like you think. He takes care of me. Better than anyone else ever has. And I trust him more than anyone else.” Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a suggestion of gratification on Narcissa’s face, but he didn’t look round to check. “Congratulations on a son. Do your mum and dad know? Maybe they won’t call _him_ a freak.” Narcissa’s eyebrows rose, and Harry turned away; he didn’t want to talk about the Dursleys. “When I’m well again, we should talk. Thanks for writing. Narcissa is being kind enough to reply for me since I can’t. Feel free to send an owl any time. Harry.”

Narcissa smiled again. “I shall owl it today. Would you like me to read Mrs Weasley’s letter?”

Harry nodded numbly, unsure if he really wanted to hear what Mrs Weasley had to say. She pulled the letter from the envelope, and Harry could see half a dozen signatures across the bottom, none of them resembling Ginny’s wild, swirly scrawl.

“Dear Harry,” she began. “I don’t know where to start. I’m so sorry. I had no idea - none of us had any idea - what Ginny was doing. I can barely even believe it, but there’s no arguing with what Bill told us. I’ve seen Great Aunt Letty’s diary myself, too. I can’t believe Ginny could be so stupid or so selfish. I'm so sorry, Harry, dear. If I’d known, I’d never have suggested for a minute that you might want anything to do with her ever again. I wouldn't blame you if you never wanted anything to do with any of us ever again.” There was a faint note of surprise in Narcissa’s voice, but Harry wasn’t surprised, not really. Molly was harassed and hurried and sometimes tactless and overwhelming, but she’d never been anything other than genuinely kind-hearted and generous with her sympathy and affection. “I hope you can believe that we didn’t know. She asked me for the diaries because she wanted a traditional family wedding, like you talked about, and I couldn’t remember as much as I would have liked. I had no idea that there was anything like that in one of them. I’d have destroyed it if I had, I promise you. The Ministry has that diary now. It’s the first time any of us has been ashamed to be a Weasley, knowing that one of our ancestors used that sort of magic.” Narcissa sounded little short of startled by that. “They say it’s not actually Dark, but Bill says that’s probably only because it wasn't a recognised spell. Percy’s arguing that it should be classified as Dark, and we all agree. I wish I could pretend that Ginny hadn't known what it would do. I don’t know where it went wrong, but I hope you know - I hope you don’t need telling - that it’s not your fault _at all_.” Under other circumstances, the similarities between Narcissa and her son – her being so obviously the source of so many of his mannerisms – might have amused Harry: her voice had gone completely toneless. “You never did want the life Ginny wanted, did you? I’m sorry none of us ever saw that.” Narcissa squinted slightly at the handwriting, then continued, “We don’t know whether she’ll be sent to Azkaban or not. She’s still being held by the Aurors. Poor Ronald is beside himself; there are some people saying it was his fault, he should have seen it. He blames himself, just as much as Bill and I blame ourselves. Her mother, an Auror, and a curse-breaker and not one of us saw it. Oh, dear, what must you think of us? I promise you that none of us has ever meant you any harm, Harry. You’re as much a part of the family as any of us. You don’t have to be married to Ginny for that to be true, I hope you can believe that. You’re like a brother to the boys and a son to me and Arthur.” Narcissa hesitated again, narrowing her eyes at the blotch on the parchment. “You always will be, even if you never want anything to do with any of us again. I do hope you can forgive Ron, at least. I think if Hermione hadn’t been there to stop him, he’d have done more than arrest Gin and drag her off to the Ministry. He’s managed to get himself assigned to your protection team, but he promised not to try to see you unless you asked for him. There’s nothing else any of us can say except we’re so sorry, Harry. We’ll always be here if you want us. Take care of yourself, dear. All our love, Molly, Arthur, Percy, Ron, George, and Bill.”

“I don’t want to reply to that one right now,” Harry said, staring at the blank screen of the TV. He heard Narcissa set the letter aside, but then she said nothing for some time, as he sank into gloomy abstraction. 

“I hope you know how to operate that,” she said languidly, at length. “Draco, I am afraid, hasn’t the slightest notion.”

“Yeah. I do.” He smiled, appreciative of the distraction.

“It is the correct... item? We weren’t entirely sure what a ‘telly’ ought to look like, but Hermione Granger – delightful young woman – assures us that this is a perfectly acceptable specimen.”

“Yeah, it’s more than I was thinking of. I can’t believe he got one. And power… apparently.”

“Yes, Muggle... eckeltricians?... were here for some time. I have no idea why they felt it necessary to remove some of the floors, but Draco insisted that they knew what they were about.”

”He had that done while I was asleep?”

She nodded. “Yes, very early on. They were under pain of... well, they were under strict instructions not to disturb you. They only laid their ropes—” _Cables_ , he thought, not interrupting, “—in the floors as far as the small ante-room; after that, they merely put them under the carpets. He refused to countenance them digging holes in the room in which you were asleep.”

“That… um… a surprise.”

Narcissa shrugged elegantly. “You indicated that it would please you. Harry, you must have realised by now that it takes no more to move Draco to action? Why, if you were to suggest that you would be more comfortable if I took up residence in the French property, my trunks would be packed before teatime and Draco would have produced any number of perfectly inarguable reasons for which it would benefit _me_ to be there. Why else did you suppose him to be so emphatic in deterring those persistent oafs at the gates?”

Harry’s heartbeat grew erratic, his face feeling warm, his breath becoming unsteady. “It’s... no one’s ever cared that much for me before.” He knew he had been saying that a lot recently, but it was true.

With a warm smile, she patted his hand. “Someone does now.”

Harry smiled. “Draco and you and Mrs Prout are like a proper family.”

Seemingly momentarily stunned by his words, Narcissa gathered herself and replied, “Harry, you— it pleases me beyond words to know that.”

Harry smiled brilliantly in response, only to be met with her glowing smile in return. It felt good. 

Remembering how much of arse he had been at the start of everything, he was glad that it hadn’t deterred Draco in any of the choices he’d made. With a chuckle, he realised if he’d known about the search for a housekeeper before being presented with the fait accompli, he would have been a git about it; his reaction after – assuming that Draco had been attempting to ingratiate himself with Harry – had been bad enough. “I was a bit narked with Draco when he hired Eleanor at first, but... I was being stupid. I’m glad he did. She’s done a lot, too. Like you. And Draco.”

“She is quite devoted.” A pause, then an expression suggesting that she was calculating Harry’s state of mind. “Harry, I hope that you won’t think I’m speaking out of turn, but I... feel that you should be aware...” She hesitated for a moment. “You are aware, I presume, of Mrs Prout’s children?”

“Of course,” Harry replied, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“They spent Easter here, of course. And were at Hightrees for Christmas. They... are encountering some difficulty at school. From the other children. Owing to their mother’s engagement here.” Her tone and expression were vaguely expectant; he wasn’t entirely sure what was expected, though.

“What sort of difficulty?”

Narcissa regarded him levelly. “Bluntly, they are being called liars. Because they cannot prove that their mother is, in truth, your housekeeper.”

Harry sighed. He was familiar with being called a liar. 

“She is prevented by the Unbreakable Vow from speaking of her occupation, and, to do her due credit, she would not speak of it even if she could. But Aurelia Stanford has it from Prudence Merriville, who has it from her daughter Rosemary, who is a Hufflepuff in Mrs Prout’s daughter’s year that their situation is rapidly becoming insupportable. I naturally inquired of Mrs Prout after I had spoken to Aurelia, and she confirmed it.”

A thought occurred to Harry quickly. “Some photos should be fine, yeah? And a note to them? Kids are ruthless. I mean, Mrs Prout can’t speak of it, but I can.”

Narcissa smiled, one of her ‘light up the room’ smiles. It occurred to him out of the blue that she must have been a very attractive girl, and that Draco was really much more his mother’s son than his father’s. “Mrs Prout, as it so chances, already has some photographs. She took them of the children in the garden at Hightrees; you appear in the window behind them.” Harry began to look puzzled: if Mrs Prout already had photographs that would solve the problem, he couldn’t immediately see why she wouldn’t just have sent them straight off and saved her kids the distress. Before he could ask, Narcissa shook her head at him. “She would never compromise your privacy, Harry. She knows how you value it.” 

“I think this is a bit different. She isn’t trying to make me out to be a raving lunatic.” Harry smiled, then. “I don’t mind her sending them. I’d like to see them, though. The photos, I mean.” He remembered the joy at seeing the garden alive with the children’s laughter, wishing that they had been his children, how Draco had been willing to play along with them; and he was also curious about how poorly he really looked. 

“Certainly,” Narcissa agreed. “The children will, of course, be coming to stay over the summer holidays, if you are still here.” 

Harry frowned. He hadn’t really thought about how long he’d be staying – hadn’t wanted to assume he was welcome. “I suppose I’ll need to look for a flat or something. I forgot about that. Draco had one of Praie’s clerks visit; they’re taking care of everything already.”

Narcissa frowned slightly. “If you wish to, then naturally Draco will be pleased to assist you. But I should have hoped that you would realise that you are welcome to treat the Manor as your home for as long as you wish. Of course, the assurance should more properly come from Draco, as he is its master, but I doubt that he will recognise the need to mention it.”

“I love it here, but... I didn’t want to assume anything.”

She smiled gently. “I think, Harry, that I can assure you without fear of contradiction that you are safe to assume anything you wish where my son is concerned.” 

Harry smiled, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “Thanks. I suppose between that and what he said before you arrived... I think so, too.”

Her eyes brows rose, but she didn’t press for any information, and while Harry wanted to share with her what Draco had said, he also wanted to keep it close, something just for him for the time being. Then remembering Kreacher – after mention of the house being taken care of, he asked, “Oh, my house-elf. What happened to him?”

“He is here, of course. When Mrs Prout cleared the house of your personal belongings, the elf returned to the Manor with her. Everything is in the east wing. When you feel equal to the task, I should be pleased to help you go through it, if you wish to do so.” 

Not keen on the idea of having to sift through the pieces of an old life, he recognised that he would still have to sort through and return anything that belonged to Ginny. He was grateful that after explaining the situation to Dimity Dewey, she was quite certain they could handle the sale quickly. Narcissa’s offer had taken him off guard a bit, but he appreciated it.

“I’d like that,” Harry replied, the door opening to admit Mrs Prout with some dinner. Narcissa assisted him with drinking his soup; after having been awake for so long, he was tired, worn out from the conversation and the physical strain. He settled comfortably, and fell asleep, his mind full and his heart light.

When he woke a few hours later, it was to a strange hum, and the room lit by a blue screen. He could see the outline of a naked Draco pushing random buttons on a remote control, which did nothing but make the screen flicker for a moment, and he smiled slightly. 

He brought his hand to his face to wipe his eyes, and Draco turned to face him, his expression guilty. “Having fun?” Harry asked, Draco simultaneously inquiring, “How do you feel?”

Harry’s smile deepened as he reached for his glasses so he could actually see Draco for a change. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Draco said. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t. And I’m okay. A bit stiff, though.” Harry quirked a sad smile, lamenting his lack of an erection – he’d missed Draco’s hands on him. Realistically he knew it was due as much to the Muggle medications he’d been on, and the physical strain of Ginny’s spell being removed, but that didn’t make it any less regrettable. 

“Could you tolerate physio?”

“We can try,” he offered with a shrug.

Placing the remote on the bedside table, Draco slid out of bed, and Harry’s eyes followed him avidly, admiring each movement of his lithe body. At Harry’s side, he started with his feet and ankles like always, the firm pressure slightly uncomfortable, but since he’d been improving considerably, it wasn’t as bad as he knew it could have been had Draco not been administering the Muggle medicines. 

“What were you trying to watch?” Harry asked; conversation had always been the best method of distraction in the past.

“The Meaning of Life.”

“Hermione brought DVDs, then,” he muttered, on the basis that neither Luna nor Ron really knew anything about Muggle things. He had ceased to be surprised by how much Draco knew.

“Mmm. Quite a few,” Draco said. “What’s a Monty Python? I couldn’t see a reference to snakes anywhere on the container.”

Harry laughed. “No snakes. That’s just what they call themselves. The comedians. There are about six of them, I think; really funny blokes.”

“Hmm.” Draco sounded oddly disappointed. “And what _is_ the meaning of life; do you know?”

Harry took a moment to think about what exactly Draco was asking, then it hit him that Draco seemed to be under the misapprehension that the film was somehow educational. 

“Draco, it’s... a comedy. It’s not supposed to be serious.” 

He appeared to consider Harry’s reply, then said, “There’s probably some sort of profound irony to that, but I confess it escapes me.”

Mirthful laughter shook Harry’s body as Draco moved to his legs. “It’ll make more sense when you watch it.” A bit more awake than he had been, Harry noticed that the room felt different, had more life. Green eyes scanned the room, but nothing seemed off – then his gaze fixed on an antique pedestal, his sang de boeuf bowl resting atop it. Seeing it brought a smile to his face. “That definitely adds some life to the room.”

“I hope you don't mind my having brought it.” It occurred to Harry that Draco knew exactly what he was talking about, and it made his smile deepen.

“No. I’m glad you did. Your mum told me the house was cleared out. I’m just glad it’s done with.”

“ _Mostly_ done with. The elf separated most of your belongings from hers, but you may wish to go through the rest as well. Some of it may have sentimental connotations.”

“Not really. But I’ll worry about that later.”  
He honestly wished he could chuck everything and start over, but he knew he couldn’t. It was an instinctive reaction to everything, the red of betrayal leaving its stain on everything. He couldn’t think about that, though. Draco’s words about their pasts making them the men they were was the truth, and he wanted to move on, make a new life – with Draco. One thought led to another, eventually they settled on what Narcissa had said about Harry being welcome at the Manor apparently indefinitely, and the talk about Hightrees being cleaned out reminded him that he probably should confirm what she’d said. He’d spent too much of his life making assumptions, and since such a statement from Narcissa involved Draco as much as it did him, he felt the need to clarify.

“I need to turn you, now,” Draco said.

“All right.” Draco turned him carefully, and he removed his glasses so they wouldn’t dig into his face. “Your mum said she’d help me go through it. The stuff from the house, I mean. I’m not in any hurry, really.” He stopped, still thinking what he should say. “Um, Draco…?” He paused again. “When I was talking with your mum today, she told me about Mrs Prout’s children and their difficulty at Hogwarts – and she said they’d be here over the summer holidays if I am, but it got me thinking that I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I mean, I don’t have to worry about Hightrees any more, and I don’t know when I’m supposed to start looking for a new house... I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do...”

There was a pause before Draco spoke, and when he did, it was in a voice from which all human emotion had been carefully leeched. “Anything you want to do. I had presumed you’d be staying here, at least until you’re fully recovered. Particularly given what you said on the way to the party. But if you prefer to be elsewhere...”

Shocked, Harry knew he needed to choose his wording carefully. He had no desire to be anywhere else, but he needed to know how Draco perceived things. “I prefer to be where you are, but I don’t want to assume anything... And I didn’t know if it was... too much. This is new to me.”

“I thought I’d made it clear that I will go wherever you need me,” Draco said tonelessly. “If you wish to be at the Manor, so be it. If you prefer to be elsewhere, there’s nothing to which I need immediate access that can’t be moved.” The inflection was slightly off, and Harry wondered if there had been a flare of nostrils to accompany the statement. 

“It’s not that.” Harry sighed, realising Draco wasn’t understanding him. And it occurred to him that maybe Draco was just as uncertain as he was, and he didn’t want that – so he grappled for the right words. “I like being here. I meant – mean – that. I just didn’t want to assume that I was welcome to be here... for... however long you want me.”

“You’re welcome to be her for however long you want to be here. What exactly did my mother say to you?” The question was delivered with unwonted sharpness, but Harry had the sense that the edge was angled towards Narcissa rather than himself.

Warmth spread on Harry’s cheeks. “She said it was safe to assume anything as far as you were concerned... She said I was welcome, but... I wanted – needed – you to say it, I suppose. I don’t want to be anywhere else, but ... I don’t know what we are - lovers, yes, but ... I’m not making any sense, am I?” 

“Not really, no.” Draco released his hold on Harry. “All done. Your skin’s degrading on your back, probably from the amount of time you’ve spent on it. Are you sufficiently comfortable as you are for an hour or so?”

Harry sighed. He hated when Draco changed the subject. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good,” he said, and Harry felt Draco’s fingers stroke his arse lightly, the light touch sending a spark of sensation through him that he hadn’t felt for days, a soft moan escaping his lips. “Would you like me to read to you?”

“Sure.”

“Any preferences?”

“I’m not picky, Draco.”

He snorted in amusement, and asked, “What has my mother been reading to you?”

“Greek stuff. Some French. Sometimes she doesn’t tell me what it’s about, just reads it.”

“She’s been inflicting foreign languages you don’t speak on you?” Draco’s tone was verging on displeasure – that much Harry could tell. 

“I asked her to. She would start translating, and I really just liked hearing her read. She _has_ read things in English.”

“Hmm. Well, which way is your taste running today? Comprehensible, or unintelligible?”

“I’d listen to you recite potion ingredients.” He smiled, and turned his head toward Draco. “No one’s ever read to me before, except your mum.” He paused, considering. “I don’t think I’ll be awake for long, so probably nothing that I have to think about.”

“I’ve been reading Catullus recently.”

Harry yawned, his agreement slurring slightly. Draco slid back into bed and opened the book he had apparently been keeping on the bedside table, then began reading in smoothly rhythmic, elided, very slightly accented Latin. Harry had no idea what he was saying, but it was pleasant to hear. His eyes closed as he let each sound roll over his skin, Draco’s tone often giving him some sort of insight into the words and their meaning. He supposed that was what Draco had meant about words having a flavour, and they left his palate awash with the faint taste of bitterness and sweetness.

Afraid of another incontinence episode, the moment he felt the pressure on his bladder, he abruptly said, “Draco, I need my bottle.”

“All right,” he said, marking his page. “Can you manage on your own?”

“Yeah, just help me turn, please,” Harry said, the bed shifting as Draco stood up and moved to his side. Carefully, mindful as ever of the drip and its tubing, he helped Harry turn, then handed him the bottle, his eyes on Harry the whole time. 

Harry flinched slightly, forcing his still-weak muscles to work properly.

Draco frowned. “Are you experiencing discomfort when passing urine?” He looked at Harry, who had started to stutter something. “You clearly are. When were you going to tell me?” he demanded irascibly. 

“You asked before I could.”

Draco snorted softly. “You’re flinching and your stream is a little weak. Are you experiencing a burning sensation?”

“No. Just takes more effort.”

Draco frowned. 

“I thought it was ’cause of the magic,” Harry said honestly. “Everything hurt and was difficult.”

“Hmm. It’s possible, I suppose, but I would have expected it to improve in line with the rest of your symptoms. I wonder...” He grimaced.

“What?” Harry asked, concerned.

“There are spells I’d use, ordinarily, for a broad-spectrum diagnostic. To check on your… ah… plumbing functionality. But, obviously, I can’t use those. There’s no burning, which suggests that it’s not infection. It’s possible that there’s a blockage or stenosis of your urethra, though I can’t think offhand what’s likely to have caused it. I suppose you could have had a bout of infective urethritis: you’ve been in a bad enough way recently that you probably wouldn’t have noticed, and it’d be a miracle if your immune system _wasn’t_ compromised after all this. Infections can just appear and then clear themselves up, after all. There hasn’t been any noticeable discharge, though.” He was clearly thinking aloud. “I can’t test the flow rate, since it’s obviously off; I can’t use the spells for urethrography or urethroscopy, and Muggle hospitals are simply out of the question.” He grimaced to himself, and then looked at Harry. “There’s one thing I definitely _can_ do, since I don't believe it’s current infection, but it’s... well, ‘extremely invasive’ is probably an understatement.”

Nervous in the face of Draco’s deepening frown and suddenly professional mien, Harry tried to joke. “What, like sticking something in my cock?”

Draco quirked a half smile and took the bottle from Harry. “Exactly like that, actually. The process is called ‘sounding’.”

“Oh, bloody— you’re joking, right?”

“Have I ever joked about your health?”

“It’s not that. _I_ was joking.” If anything, Draco had always been so serious in regard to his health that he wished he’d lighten up, but it had been his nerves dictating a whimsical response; he hadn’t actually expected to be right.

“I know,” he said, his tone indicating he didn’t find it a fit subject for levity. “This procedure, however…”

“Sorry. I’m just wondering what there’ll be left I haven’t had done to me medically by the time this is over.”

“I can safely assure you that I won’t subject you to a hysterectomy.”

“What’s that?”

“Removal of the uterus.”

“Oh,” Harry cracked a smile. “I definitely don’t have one of those. All right, so what will you have to do?”

“You more or less hit it on the head when you said ‘stick something in your cock’. The implement is called a ‘sound’. It’s a safe enough procedure, when it’s performed carefully by someone who knows what they’re doing,” he said in that reassuring tone.

“You’ve done this one before?” he asked, remembering that Draco had never done the bone marrow biopsy before the day he’d done it to Harry.

“Yes. Curse damage can take many forms.”

Harry nodded. “You know you can do whatever you have to do. I just like knowing what it’s going to be.” Draco smiled faintly. “When do you want to do it?”

“There’s no reason to delay it. I’ll go to London for the equipment and do it tomorrow afternoon, unless you’d rather leave it?”

“I… um… it’s best to know for sure, right? I mean, I know you aren’t going to hurt me.”

“It will probably be uncomfortable.”

“It can’t be worse than I felt before you stuck this in my hand.”

Draco inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I’m going to need to start reducing your dosages again soon. It’s not healthy for you to be on those medications for long.”

He nodded. “Doesn’t hurt as much now. Not like it did, anyway. Just sore now.”

“Good. I’ll start withdrawing them this week, then. But I want you to promise me that you’ll tell me if the discomfort becomes too much. I don’t want you on the potions longer than you have to be, but I don’t want you suffering needlessly, either.”

“Yes, Draco, I promise,” he said, smiling, noting Draco’s use of ‘potions’ instead of medication.

“I’ll head to London again, then. Henderson’s probably sick of the sight of me,” Draco murmured as he got back into bed after having emptied and cleaned the bottle.

“Can’t imagine why he would be,” Harry said, flushing.

“Probably because I keep turning up and dragging him out of his clinics to provide equipment at very short notice, all of which he then has to explain to his Muggle supervisors.”

“That’s not what I meant… never mind.” His cheeks flared hot. Draco leaned in and kissed him, and he forgot about flirting, or breathing, for that matter, until he couldn’t take the lack of oxygen any more, his chest rising and falling quickly as firm fingers moved through his hair, mussing it, and making his toes tingle. After turning out the lights, he turned Harry onto his side, assuming their usual sleeping position, and they fell asleep.

**~*~*~*~**

In the morning, after a soft, but hungry kiss, Draco left for London, having helped Harry eat breakfast, bathe, and complete his stretches. He felt better than he had the previous days, so instead of going back to sleep immediately, he rested, watching films. Mrs Prout was kind enough to change DVDs for him, and even stayed to watch _Carry On Loving_ with him. After lunch, Draco returned while Harry was engrossed in Carry On Cleopatra, just in time to hear him chanting along with the actor, “Infamy! Infamy! They’ve all got it in for me!” 

Still laughing, Harry looked up after pausing the DVD, and said, “Hey. How was London?”

“Busy. Smelly. Much as usual.” Draco was carrying a bag, and Harry swallowed hard, his courage dissipating slightly. 

“S’ppose this means you’re going to need to... examine me.” He was trying for a light tone, but he heard the discomfort in his own voice.

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “Hmm. I may need to do that quite a lot, you realise.”

Harry flushed. “I hope so,” he replied.

“I’m going to need to move you. The procedure needs you to be in a position you won’t be able to hold yourself.”

“All right,” Harry replied, pulling the sheet aside. 

Those piercing grey eyes roamed over Harry’s body in a look that made warmth settle in his stomach, slowly spreading out. Harry grinned in response to the look on Draco’s face. 

“I need to bring a table through. Don’t... move a muscle…” Draco said, grinning ferally. 

He nodded, biting his lip, waiting.

Draco returned a few moments later, dragging a table into the room. He spread a duvet over it, then obtained a pillow, laid down some towels, sterile cloths, then began spreading everything out from the kit. 

“Are you ready?” Draco asked. 

“Yeah,” he replied, still grinning, still not moving. 

Draco disconnected the drip, and then picked him up, quite effortlessly, which Harry liked – it showed Draco’s strength – and carried him to the table, arranging his body with his legs hanging off the edge. He averted his gaze from the curved rod on the table and looked at the ceiling.

“I did warn you that this will be extremely invasive,” Draco said, his tone cautionary.

“Yeah,” Harry said, closing his eyes, breathing measuredly. He was fine with whatever Draco had to do, even if it was bound to cause discomfiture and discomfort. No harm would come to him in Draco’s capable hands.

The feeling of cool gel made him flinch slightly, but he was okay. He tried to remain still, listening to Draco’s steady breathing. It was calming, until he felt Draco take his cock gently, but with a firm hold, and the strangest sensation he’d ever felt began. His body reacted to it, and he felt himself growing hard as the implement slowly moved into him.

Opening his eyes in curiosity, he saw Draco holding a long silvery rod, which he was manoeuvring carefully and unhurriedly into Harry’s urethra. 

It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. “Oh, what the fu— Draco, what are you doing?” He groaned slightly.

“You’re having problems urinating. I’m making sure your urethra isn’t blocked. I did explain.” His Healer sounded abstracted, his whole concentration locked on his hands, the rod, and the dilated slit in the head of Harry’s cock.

“That feels like you’re – fuck, I can’t even – Draco—” Harry’s eyes rolled back; he was completely unused to what he was feeling, and he was mortified by his reaction. The look on Draco’s face – all of that intense focus on _him_ — coupled with how much Harry trusted him was too much. Another groan, yanked from deep within him, vibrated in his throat. 

“Just relax, I can’t hurry it. I could do you a lot of dam—” Draco stopped abruptly, and then, in tones of absolute disbelief and acute suspicion, demanded, “Potter, are you getting _hard_?”

Harry’s face was hot. “That’s… oh, fuck—” He stopped abruptly, his thoughts ending as the rod pressed against something inside him that flared and sparked with delicious sensations. 

“Well, it’s in,” Draco said, the exasperation clear in his tone.

He groaned again, and he looked at Draco, who was regarding him with irritable, slightly scandalised bewilderment. 

“How the hell am I supposed to get it out again, now?”

“I-I don't know. I can't even— It’s… fuck. Can I come like this?” Harry blurted, his face growing red again – Draco’s was, too, he noted from somewhere behind the haze of insane arousal.

“I’ve seen it done.” 

Harry inhaled sharply, irritated that his first erection in a week had come from a medical procedure, but nonetheless relishing the much-missed sensation. Mortification that it had taken a metal rod being inserted into a part of his body that categorically shouldn’t have objects inserted into it spread through him. He was mildly alarmed about what that might say about him as a person, and closed his eyes, taking a measured breath. 

“Do you want me to…?” Draco coughed, and reached visibly for his professional composure. “The options are limited. I don’t want to masturbate you with that in place; it could hurt you. So either we wait for you to lose your erection – which doesn’t look likely to happen imminently—” A disapproving expression flickered across his face. “Or—” He flushed brighter, “—I could massage your prostate. I don’t think ice is an option.”

“Yes,” Harry said, his breathing erratic. 

“Yes, what, Potter?” he asked, the irritation clear.

“Do it. M-massage my prostate.”

Draco inhaled, changing positions slightly, to stand between Harry’s legs. It was unfortunate that the position would have lent itself perfectly to _other_ activities, as he knew they weren't going to happen – didn’t stop him from wanting it, though. He watched as Draco added some of the lubrication to his gloved fingers, one handed, then he stopped. “Have you ever had a prostate examination?”

“N-no.”

“You do _understand_ what I need to do to massage your prostate?”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry panted. Every slight movement made the rod embedded in him twitch infinitesimally, sending shocks of almost unbearable pleasure through him.

“Try to relax. It may be uncomfortable at first.”

Those pale, slender fingers that Harry had dreamed about began to prod at his arse slowly, and, as he felt the deliberate push, his nerves completely on end, he moaned softly, the sensations driving him mad. He _was_ slightly uncomfortable at first, feeling Draco’s finger moving in and out of him, but he relaxed into it, savouring each movement. When Draco added another finger, he bit his lip, swallowing a gasp, and felt his erection flagging slightly. He looked down at Draco, confused – in one hand the blond held one end of the rod that was inside him, his palm and the heel of his hand supporting Harry's cock, and the fingers of the other were slowly moving in and out of his arse. The sight alone restored what enthusiasm his erection had lost.

“Don’t worry. That’s normal. Your body’s not used to have things going _in_ here.”

Harry settled again, groaning loudly when he felt the first bit of pressure against his prostate from both sides, and he was lost to the sensation, his entire body on fire with the need to release. He wanted to touch Draco, to kiss him, but he couldn’t, and it was maddening. 

“Draco,” he panted, his entire world flipping upside down as the most intense, slightly painful rush he’d ever felt accompanied his orgasm. Colours sparked behind his eyelids, a solar eclipse of feeling that spread out until he could only lie reeling. 

Once he had his head again – and Draco had safely removed the sound – he asked, “So does that mean you just took my virginity?”

Draco looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, a real laugh, one that Harry wanted to see and hear more of. “I suppose you could say so,” he replied. 

“Shame it had to be _that way_ ,” Harry lamented, watching Draco lay aside the sound and reach for a packet of sterile wipes to clean him up.

Pale eyebrows rose.

“I... “ Harry flushed again. “I just mean... that’s not really ... um, how I expected it to happen.”

That pleasant laugh of Draco’s filled the room again. “There’s plenty of time for the other. Besides, you don't really lose your virginity until you’ve done me, too.” 

Harry hadn’t really thought about fucking Draco, and images ran across his mind’s eye, making his brain feel like it had stopped working. Until Draco had mentioned it, he hadn’t realised how much he wanted that, too. Draco was still speaking, smiling wickedly. “Your purity is still _mostly_ intact. And, I’m happy to say, your urethral function seems to be, too. Given the trouble you had urinating, you managed to ejaculate quite spectacularly, despite the sound.”

Draco began cleaning him up, and he found his voice again, after clearing his throat. “Um, you know... I never really— that was new,” he said awkwardly.

“You’d never had a metal rod inserted into your urethra before? I’m far from surprised.” His tone was more measured again, but the warm amusement wasn’t far from the surface.

“Um... that, but I mean... I think I’d let you do anything you wanted.” Trying to explain – to a quizzical-looking Draco – what had been so arousing about the procedure wasn’t coming easily. He thought it should: it was just words to express his feelings, the sensations, but he was coming up short on how to tell Draco what he had felt and had been thinking. “I-I haven’t ever been so… open to whatever. Merlin! I’ve never trusted anyone enough to let them do something like that. I think… I could let you do whatever you wanted to me, though – just k-knowing you wouldn’t hurt me.” 

His statement elicited a puzzled expression from Draco. “Loath as I am to disappoint you, Potter, my sexual tastes really aren’t quite as deviant as you appear to think.”

“That’s— I just mean... you wouldn’t hurt me and knowing that is—” Harry swallowed, “—arousing. I don’t know how to explain it. I didn’t think anything...”

“I think I get the general gist. Let me put you back to bed; or do you feel equal to sitting up for a while, today?”

“Bed’s fine. Want to finish the film.”

Draco nodded and carried him back to the bed. Harry kissed him softly before he left, then started _Carry on Cleopatra_ again. 

For dinner, he had his first solid meal, a fabulous piece of poached salmon. It was getting late in the evening when Draco returned, took Harry to bathe, then stretched him.

“Would you like your pyjamas?” he asked afterward, but Harry declined, blushing. He liked sleeping naked with Draco. They settled in bed to watch a film, and Harry fell asleep less than ten minutes after it had started. He stirred when Draco shifted him into their usual sleeping position, but he fell asleep again quickly, feeling the press of soft lips against his ear. 

Harry spent most of his weekend in bed still, and his body finally lost the residual soreness from the magic. He was sitting up more, wearing clothes, except to sleep, and on the Sunday evening, Hermione came to sit with him for a while. They spent a few hours chatting, in which Harry learned that Draco had given Hermione complete access to his personal vaults in order to obtain the TV, DVD player and DVDs. He shared with her, somewhat bashfully, his desire to have sex, talked about Draco mentioning Harry fucking him, and even if he was flaming red the whole time, he felt better for having talked to her. She, while not without her typical words of caution, gave him some useful information on positions they might be able to try for penetration, having apparently started looking into it as soon as he had confessed his attraction to Draco to her. He tried to avoid discussing Ron, but he let her vent her frustration; she seemed to need it. He wasn’t entirely certain what the big problems and the small problems between them were, and he really wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But he listened, offering what support he could. 

He was shocked to learn that Hermione had received a letter from Krum, and he had a feeling he knew who had prompted that. He refrained from enlightening Hermione and cautioned her to avoid telling Ron – it would just upset things further. 

Since Hermione still had access to his vaults, he requested a few items for Draco’s amusement and entertainment while Harry was sleeping. She promised she’d do what she could to find what he wanted. Having seemed fascinated with the TV and DVDs Hermione had brought, Harry thought Draco might enjoy some sort of Muggle electronic games and even some books. Added to the request were more of the pecans she’d bought in London, and she gave him an exasperated look before nodding, obviously understanding the gestures for what they were.

Hermione left just after dinner, which Harry managed to eat unaided. Exhausted by his efforts and the time with Hermione, Harry lay down and fell asleep, then, but woke when Draco’s fingers ghosted across his forehead. He smiled, was taken to be bathed, and they settled back in bed after his stretches.

Unusually quiescent, Harry lay with one arm wrapped around Draco, finally able to hold onto him, too. He was glad the routine had returned somewhat, with the added bonus of Draco actually sleeping with him at night. It had taken him a little over a week to get back to where he had been before the spells had been removed, and he knew that Draco and Bill were getting closer to finding the counter-curse. He could see it in Draco’s expression when he returned from working; it was satisfied, or at least as close as to satisfied as habitually inexpressive features would be. His time appeared to have been well spent, his determination to find an answer never having faded. Such confidence was reassuring, but Harry found himself unable to shake the lingering fear that he wouldn’t survive the next round of magic being used on him. His fear had nothing to do with Draco’s capability and his trust in his Healer – it had everything to do with a man who had finally found everything he’d wanted, afraid that it would be ripped away because of Ginny’s stupidity – exacerbated by Death Eaters and their hopeless efforts to cling to a way of life that had always been impossible, as far as Harry was concerned. 

Draco looked at him, but he refused to return the questioning gaze, too afraid that Draco would see the doubt written in his features like a brightly-coloured sign, telling him that Harry didn’t trust him, when he’d been adamant that he did. To him, his fear wasn’t about lack of trust. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have to be the saviour, didn’t have to be the one responsible for taking an impossible situation and fixing it, and he hated that Draco was the one left with the decisions on what to do if he never recovered. That had been Harry’s fault, though; he’d given that to Draco without asking, and he knew that hadn’t been fair. But Draco was the only person he felt _could_ make the difficult decisions, genuinely without consideration of anything but Harry's own interests, if it came to it.

A frustrated sigh hit Draco’s chest and then blew back in Harry’s face, his heart beating quickly. He didn’t know what was coming in the next week, but he’d been updated on the progress Draco and Bill had made so far on the counter-curse, each day seeming to draw him closer to either a spell-removal he wouldn't survive or a life in which he’d have magic again. He didn’t want to die, but he knew it was a real possibility – he was a bit more realistic now than he had been as an adolescent. His brow furrowed more as he rolled each thought over in his mind, trying to decide how to ask that Draco give the rest of himself and allow Harry to give himself completely to him. He wanted to be able to experience that, to be able to give pleasure to Draco – since he hadn’t been able to return the favour at all, and Draco had been completely unselfish with his attention and affection since they’d finally stopped looking at what was between them as an obstacle rather than embracing it. Now that they were, though, he wanted it all, wanted the last of the walls torn down before he was placed in a position that he might never recover from. He took a deep breath.

Soft lips pressed against his forehead, and Harry looked at Draco's inquiring and increasingly concerned expression with his heart in his mouth, and in a voice that seemed to come from the other side of the moon, said “I want you to fuck me.”

To Be Continued…


	28. Chapter 28

****

Chapter 28: Putting the Pieces Together

Draco's body went completely rigid, and Harry braced himself for what he knew was coming: rejection.

“Absolutely not,” Draco said flatly.

“Why?” Harry asked immediately, wanting to understand Draco's side of things.

“Because I'd almost certainly injure you.”

“You won't. You haven't yet,” Harry offered quickly.

“I haven't tried shoving my cock up your arse yet,” he said dryly. “The first time _hurts_ , Potter. The first _few_ do, usually. Fingers can't really prepare you adequately. It's not excruciatingly painful, if your partner's careful, but the intrinsic discomfort is unavoidable. And right now, you just don't know your own limits.”

Harry frowned, wanting to be resentful toward Draco for being right, but he couldn't, not when it was true, much as he didn't want it to be. “I… I just wanted to before the next spell. You know? It's been almost a fortnight this time to get to this point. What if it's months the next time? I haven't been able to do anything for you, and I don't like that.”

“You do enough,” he said in that ‘I do not wish to discuss this further’ tone that Harry hated.

“Yeah, if enough is nothing,” Harry snapped, the hurt and anger beginning to mount. “I can lie back and let you suck my cock and then watch you because I can't even toss off properly.”

“I don't want more than you can comfortably give me, Potter. I'm not that self-centred. And it clearly doesn't occur to you that I might _enjoy_ sucking you off.”

“I wouldn't know, would I? I haven't done it!” he said sharply. “I suppose you think it's stupid to want to give you everything.”

Draco sighed. “You give me what you can. It's enough,” he replied in that firm, reassuring tone that Harry really wanted to dislike in that moment. “I won't deny that more would be nice, but you simply can't accommodate it now.”

“I don't like… Oh, fuck.” Harry desperately wanted to run his fingers through his hair as a distraction, but the way they were entwined made any movement difficult. “I… just— You do everything. Has it occurred to you that I want to give you just as much?”

“I'm not arguing with you. I applaud your generosity. But I can wait until you're well.” Draco was still speaking firmly, but there was an usual note of gentleness to his tone that Harry couldn't ignore.

“And if I'm always like this? Will you honestly keep saying that?”

“Yes,” he replied with the sort of conviction that should have made Harry appreciative for his unwavering constancy. But he wasn't. Not when he could feel the way Draco was reacting – that couldn't be hidden, even if he wanted it to be. 

“Even if I want it?” Harry asked, his voice a plea for Draco to understand.

Draco sighed again. “I don't like denying you. I would have hoped you knew that. But I value your wellbeing too highly to compromise it for sexual gratification. And you _aren't_ always going to be like this.”

“Which is why I'm not saying 'please',” he said, looking at Draco. He was perfectly aware that all it would take to win Draco's capitulation would be to say please, but he didn't want that, not after the last time. Hurting Draco further had been a constant worry ever since the night they'd become lovers. “I respect you enough not to demand it. But after the other day—” _when you had your fingers in my arse_ , “—I can't say I don't want it even more.”

“You may note that I'm not suggesting that _I_ don't.”

Harry's heart stuttered at Draco's admission, and his breath hitched slightly. Both of them were hard, and as nervous as he was, Harry was excited by the knowledge that Draco did want to fuck him. “Then do it,” he goaded, his voice low and breathy. “Or... I could... fuck you,” he added nervously. The thought of fucking Draco was arousing, but he also knew Draco hadn't had sex in months, and the issue of hurting him, too, through over-excited clumsiness or sheer inexperience made an exciting idea seem almost overwhelmingly daunting.

“You most assuredly could not,” Draco replied. “And I believe we've had this 'let's fuck' part of the conversation once already tonight.”

“If you… were on top… I know there are positions we could use, ones that wouldn't… strain me.” It was important to Harry to have that connection with Draco; he wanted all of him, wanted to give of himself for both of their pleasure, and as a shiver ran through him at the thought, his own mind gave way to the possibilities of fucking and being fucked. Draco inside him, him inside Draco, none of the logistics mattered, so long as he was able to experience that closeness and connection. Just thinking about it made his skin tingle. 

“Potter, while I look forward more than I can competently express to the day you can fuck me, believe me when I say that that day won't be imminent. Please try to be rational. I have concerns about your ability to recognise your own limits even being somewhat passive; do you really think I'll be reassured by the suggestion that you take a more active role?”

“I... want us to have each other. It means something to me...” _I want us to be equal, or at least feel equal. I want…_ Harry couldn't even think of what he wanted, and voicing it was even harder. He knew he didn't want his debility to be the reason they never had sex, and he wanted Draco to understand that what he was offering was _him_ : body and soul. “I don't want my body to always be a reason _not_ to do something. And I can't give you much else, but I can give you _me_. Fuck.” He paused for a moment, trying to make sense of the way he felt. “I've never wanted to... belong... to someone else. To feel that.”

“I'll respond to that when I've decoded it,” Draco said, sounding perplexed.

Wanting Draco to understand, Harry tried to explain again, his voice sounding like it was miles away. “I don't... know how to explain it.” He sighed. “To me, having sex, letting you have my body, or you letting me have yours is... like giving you me - all of me. And taking all of you.”

“You’ve got all of me now,” Draco said, clearly still none the wiser. 

Harry closed his eyes, growing frustrated with his inability to articulate what he was thinking. “It's... different,” he tried again, then sighed. “Forget it.”

Silence hung heavy for a few moments. “You feel that it's necessary for one of us to fuck the other to make this a proper relationship?” Draco asked eventually, almost tentatively.

Harry closed his eyes and frowned: the way Draco had asked the question made it seem so simple. To Harry, sex with another person had always been symbolic of their commitment to one another, at least that was how things had been with Ginny, and his feelings on the matter hadn't changed. He was incapable of sharing _that_ part of himself with just anyone.

Reluctantly, he admitted it. “Yes.”

“Oh. I see,” Draco said, still sounding mildly puzzled, but there was no judgement in his tone, for which Harry was grateful.

“It's not… that simple, but… yeah,” Harry added. Having only been in one relationship before, Harry really didn't know anything, apart from what he'd learned with Ginny, which had shaped most of what he believed. The expectations when having sex with her had been all about how he could please her, physically, emotionally, and he had done, or so he'd thought. She'd wanted that as confirmation, almost validation, that she had been his and he'd been hers: sex hadn't been complete without an exchange of trite phrases of claiming and possession. And not knowing exactly what he and Draco were to one another – other than lovers, because he really didn't know what that meant, either – he wasn't sure how to explain himself. “I don't know what lovers are, Draco. I've been... engaged. That's what I know. I know it isn't the same for you. You've had other lovers – me, I've only had you and Ginny, and sex... it's always been important...” Harry closed his mouth, feeling silly.

“It's important as you think it is,” Draco replied, the tone of reassurance still there, though lying thickly over a solid bank of persistent incomprehension. “I would still be with you, without regrets, even if you weren't even able to tolerate this much.”

“For how long? I mean, Ginny wasn't satisfied... and she said she was... And I don't want... just to be lovers.”

“For as long as there is,” Draco said, the frown evident in his voice. “I thought you _did_ want to be lovers.”

“Um… I don't want temporary,” Harry replied – trying to clarify – frowning. His understanding of relationships was limited, and he felt highly ignorant of the definitions.

Draco paused a moment. “I hadn't realised you'd been contemplating temporary,” he said slowly, coolly.

“Isn't that what lovers are? I don't know these things.”

“I really don't think there's a definitive guide to terminology.” 

“I just... always thought lovers were... temporary. Fulfilling a mutual need... just sex. Nothing more.” Harry's face was hot, and he clenched his teeth in irritation. 

“Maybe they are, to some people,” Draco said, his confusion still evident, but his tone conciliatory. “Potter. I don't consider this temporary. I never did. I wouldn't have abandoned my career and reputation to 'temporary'.”

Harry smiled lightly, leaning forward to kiss Draco.

“Sex isn't a question of urgency, because there's time and to spare.”

But Harry didn't feel that way. “But I want that with you,” he said softly, hoping his tone, lacking its usual petulance, would be understood for the desire it was, not the demand to force Draco into something he'd regret.

Harry could hear Draco's teeth grinding together. “I could sound you again,” came what Harry thought was a palliative offer. While the sounding had been quite unlike he'd expected at the time, it wasn't nearly the same as what he was asking for, or what he was offering: there was no substitute in Harry's mind.

“I just want you,” Harry said, feeling like he was alone in the middle of the Forbidden Forest without a wand.

“You have me. You'll have me as long as you want me,” was the immediate, unhesitating reply. 

“Will always want you,” he said, taking Draco's hand and placing it around his cock. “This is what feeling you does to me. And I… can't breathe when you kiss me. And I've never wanted to feel another person so much before.” _I want to belong to you,_ he thought as the hand around him began to move slowly. “I'd let you do anything you wanted if it gave you pleasure,” he said, his voice barely recognisable. He dropped his forehead to Draco's chest, moaning softly. 

“Then there's no need to rush to fucking,” Draco said, manoeuvring Harry to his other side. Back to chest, the slow strokes against his cock continued. Harry's head fell against Draco's body, and lips joined with tongue and teeth against his neck and shoulder as he felt the slow, rhythmic rocking of Draco's body against him. Between his thighs, Draco's cock was pressing lightly against his balls with each movement, and in the pleasure-blank haze of touch, sound, and smell, Harry let himself be led through a labyrinth of thrilling brilliance that pooled at his centre and began to spread out, a slow wave of fire that seared him. 

His body remembered the way Draco's fingers had felt inside him, and feeling Draco's cock so close to his arse, every nerve ending ignited, his voice a discordant plea for that moment when the world would stop moving, and for a split second, his heart would stop as the tide of sensation, delivered by consummate hands and mouth, made everything narrow to the two of them and their shared pleasure.

The breathing in his ear was heavy, adding to the arousal. He swallowed, his throat dry from the quick inhales and exhales that took with them each appreciative moan as his body finally succumbed to the stimulation. He arched; his eyes snapped closed; and an uncontrollable shudder ran through him as the slick, sticky feeling of come was spread the length of his cock. He was but breath and heartbeat when a wet hand came to rest in the centre of his chest, and felt, more than heard, Draco's own orgasm as he pressed their bodies together tightly, the sensation of come against his balls a hot flood.

They were both still panting when Draco kissed Harry's neck and pulled away, then rolled out of bed. He watched the silhouette of his lover – as precious and aesthetically pleasing as his sang de boeuf bowl – move toward the bathroom. He exited a few moments later, then thoroughly cleaned Harry off, the gentle glide of the towel cleaning away the semen reminding him of what Luna had said about Draco liking the back of his balls sucked. 

Returning to bed, Draco wrapped his arms around Harry, placing a soft kiss on his neck.

“Good night,” Harry whispered, Draco's lazy reply coming shortly after. He closed his eyes, but sleep never came. Lying in the darkness, his mind wandered, the slow grip of imaginary fingers around his heart making him uncomfortable. Fear of losing what he had gained was beginning to erode his mental defences, letting doubt slip in, making him uncertain of the things to come and whatever it was that he shared with Draco. Not even the comfort of Draco's arms wrapped around him could quell the fear of dying before he had the opportunity to enjoy what he had with Draco – losing what he had found. He wanted to focus on the positives of the situation, but his thoughts tending to end up a pendulum, swinging freely from good to bad as the panic that he'd not experience what it meant to be with Draco fully hung over him, a grey cloud of emotion that he was struggling to articulate. 

Behind him, Draco was sleeping peacefully, and deeper than usual, if his not waking the moment Harry twitched a finger was anything to go by. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling of their naked skin touching. It felt right – Draco felt right against him, a source of strength when he had run out. And just as much as he defined Draco, Draco now defined him, was a part of him, which he thought was all the more reason to want to give pleasure and of himself, to go beyond what Draco had done for him. Harry needed to know that he was just as capable of giving pleasure as he was of accepting it. He loved when Draco touched him, but he wanted to touch just as much, to feel the pride of having brought that completely open and unguarded expression to Draco's face because of something he had _done_ rather than merely _allowed_. It was a poor substitute to his mind, but that was all he had. 

There was a spark of envy toward Luna and how intimate she had been with Draco in the past, and he felt the need to prove himself capable of returning Draco's affections, even knowing he wasn't as experienced as a lover – especially with another man. But he was willing to try, was willing to sacrifice some of his comfort to show Draco he wanted him, too. 

With all the grace of a troll in an antique room, he tried to turn over, but with Draco behind him and plastered to his back like a less malignant and more attractive Lethifold, it was practically impossible. All of the shifting he was doing inevitably woke Draco, and in that panicked tone, before his eyes were even open, he asked, “Potter, what's wrong?” Harry held his breath, his face flushing brightly as he looked at Draco, who was blinking rapidly into actual wakefulness. “What the hell are you doing?”

Caught, Harry mumbled his explanation, finding it hard to look into the grey eyes staring at him.

“You couldn't sleep, therefore you wanted to _suck my balls?_ ” His tone suggested he thought Harry had gone mad.

“I-I was just thinking, and I remembered something Luna said and since I can't do anything else…” Feeling defeated and embarrassed, Harry sighed and said, “Forget it. Just… go back to sleep.”

Those long, strong arms pulled Harry against Draco's body, and he said, “I may never entirely understand you.”

“I don't think it's that difficult, really. I want to give something back to the person I love and not feel like I'm…” Harry gave up. 

“What? Useless? Unattractive? You give plenty back. Just by being here. You have no reason to feel inadequate.” Draco's voice had taken on that uncomfortable tone, which only made Harry feel worse. 

“But I do,” he replied, his voice coming from somewhere else.

“Then you're irrational,” Draco said, but Harry disagreed. Even when he had been whole, able-bodied, Ginny hadn't found his efforts enough, and had sought others to satisfy her. “Potter, you're in a situation that would have broken a lesser man completely.” Harry refrained from commenting that he _was_ broken, but that he kept fighting because he had someone he loved, who loved him, to fight for. “And you're not only intact, you're still pushing yourself. It's a wonder that you're even capable of saying the word 'sex' never mind trying to make it happen.” Draco paused a moment. “I promise you that when you're recovered, I will do things to you, and let you do things to me, that will make your liver curl. But I am content to wait as long as it takes, and even if it never happens – though it _will_ – I will count myself a lucky man. I'm starting to run out of ways to say that, now.”

Harry inhaled deeply, refusing to look up. He wondered how Draco could count himself a lucky man to have a lover who was physically incapable of giving more than brief caresses due to his limitations. It rankled that no matter how much he trusted Draco, he couldn't rid himself of the lingering fear that he would die. Admitting to what he was feeling was even harder, because he already knew his fears would be taken as doubt in Draco's ability, as well as a lack of trust in him. He tightened his hold on Draco's body and closed his eyes. 

It was a measure of how much he trusted Draco that he was willing to put everything: his fear, insecurity, and desires on the line. He'd not even trusted Ginny nearly that much, and they were supposed to have been getting married. He'd been holding back a lot of who he was for a long time, and now that he had someone who didn't judge him or have any expectations, beyond continued existence, Harry found himself finally untangling some of the emotional mess that Ginny had left behind, only to sit in the palm of Draco's hand, waiting for his fingers to close and suffocate him – call him childish for the things he was feeling. Exposing that weakness, allowing Draco to see each crack in his emotional walls was dangerous: either he would be accepted or rejected, and after so many years of the latter, he was dying for the former. He trusted Draco not to do it, though, and in turn, he couldn't betray what trust Draco had in him by being manipulative or using what he knew would give him everything he wanted; the emotional blackmail would ruin everything, and he truly didn't want that.

“I'm scared, alright? I'm scared that I'll die and… I won't have had that with you. Because I'm happier than I've ever been, and if I d-die…” He couldn't finish the sentence.

Draco's arms tightened around him momentarily. “I don't want to hurt you, Harry. I don't want to do anything that would prejudice your wellbeing.” 

Looking up, his name like a shock of electricity from Draco's lips, Harry took a steadying breath, then said, “You said before… that you'd be careful. I know _you_ won't hurt me.” Closing his eyes, he asked, “You think I'm mad, don't you?”

The laugh from Draco in response wasn't remotely amusing to Harry. “Yes. Completely.”

Harry sighed and placed a kiss on Draco's neck. “I'm sorry for waking you. 'Night, Draco.”

Draco craned to kiss Harry properly, running fingers into his hair to tip his head to a better angle. “I was about ready to wake up anyway. And it was a lovely thought. I can't imagine why you were discussing my sexual predilections with Lovegood, but she was right about that.”

Harry was slightly shocked that Draco had admitted that he thought it was a 'lovely gesture', confirming his like of the back of his balls being sucked, and he appreciated that Draco was willing to tell him _some_ things without guessing, or having to get the information from Narcissa or Luna. He was jealous enough of his friend for her history with Draco. “She told me at the party. About you and her. Then Bill told me about you and Fleur.”

“I suppose that would have come as something of a surprise.”

“A bit, yeah. I think everyone but me has had more than one lover.”

“I don't count, then?”

“Fuck, that's not what I meant. You do. Trust me. If I could Obliviate the last seven years, I'd be happy.”

“You shouldn't be,” he replied seriously. “They're part of what's made you the man you are today.”

What Draco had said almost felt like a compliment, but Harry wasn't certain. Logically he knew the previous years had shaped his outlook on things, but he disliked what it had taken for those changes to occur. “I know. Just a reaction to everything, that's all. I kept hoping that all of this was just a nightmare. Then I remember we wouldn't be here and I'd take that over the other any day.”

Harry could see the faint outline of Draco's smile in the darkness, and felt the press of Draco's lips against his. 

“I love you,” Harry said, then felt Draco flinch, but he didn't have time to register a proper response, because Draco leaned in and kissed him again, hungrily, and his body responded to the definite intent behind Draco's searching tongue. 

Draco guided Harry's hand around their erections, using his hand to control the pressure and strength of each movement, but nonetheless actively including Harry. He didn't mind. He forgot to think as sensation coursed through him. Lips and tongue moved against Draco's chest as Harry tasted him without fear, the long, teasing strokes becoming faster, pleasure building slowly, stoked gently by the swift, firm handling of their pricks. “Like that,” Harry groaned, his entire body alive. With Draco's touch, he could handle death – it was like being taken as high into the air as one could on a broom, then diving back to the earth, staking every last breath on the ability to stop before it was too late, only there was no reason to stop then, and with the weight of Draco's cock in his grasp, moving against his, those were his last breaths. Having never felt anything so incredible, words deserted him as _feeling_ , something raw and passionate, took over. Each pulse grew until the only thing left were two men, sharing one another's breaths.

“Fuck, Draco,” he panted; his limit approached at breakneck speed. Teeth latched onto the nearest available bit of skin, his entire body feeling suspended, mid-flight, as heat coursed through every vein, and his mouth opened, a rough plea for more hanging between them, then dying; come, wet and hot covered his hand and Draco's cock. His teeth buried into Draco's chest as he came, the tang of blood erupting on his tongue. There was a flash in his mind, his heart rate thumping wildly in his chest as Draco froze and Harry felt a shock of confused emotions and sensation. It was disconcerting to have the feeling of blood against his lips. To know that he had failed to notice what he was doing made the sudden guilt that ran through him seem like it had turned his blood cold. 

He wiped at his mouth in stunned disbelief, only dimly aware of the mattress shifting and his lover disappearing; then Draco returned, a towel in hand to clean Harry up.

“I never took you for a darksider, Potter.” The mild amusement in his tone infuriated Harry.

“It's not bloody funny!” he snapped.

“It's certainly bloody,” he said. “Relax. You didn't do it deliberately, and you won't do it again.”

Harry was truly angry. All it had taken was one moment of complete abandon to do something stupid. “You always say relax – you aren't in my position, Draco! You do everything right. Always! And I… just keep fucking it up.”

“Always?” Draco sank onto the bed beside him, plying the soft towel as diligently as ever. “Fleur Delacour is unlikely to agree.”

“I mean with me!”

“I approach you with the benefit of experience. My first attempt was an unmitigated disaster. Sanjay Patil would dispute my competence, too. I made my mistakes on other people. You're still learning. Nobody gets it right first time.” 

“Fuck!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the bed. He'd spectacularly ruined his first real go at reciprocating for Draco.

“Potter, please stop winding yourself up. This isn't anything to get upset about,” Draco said, dabbing at a trickle of blood.

“You keep worrying about hurting me, but it's the opposite, you know.” Harry bit his lip, the taste of Draco's blood still there. “You should be worried about me hurting _you_.” Harry refused to look at Draco.

“I've had considerably worse than this.”

“Clearly,” Harry said. A slow smirk began to spread on Draco's face.

Draco dropped the towel, and leaned in with a predatory expression that Harry didn't understand and kissed him, consumed him. Draco's hands were in his hair, angling his head exactly where he wanted it, and Harry let him have his way. Draco broke the kiss to help Harry settle comfortably, then positioning himself bedside Harry, one leg over him, and began carefully rubbing his erection against Harry's hip. He liked the feeling of Draco taking his pleasure from his body, and he threaded his fingers in pale strands of hair, kissing him, and watching as Draco slid against him, until he stiffened, coming. 

Flopping gracelessly to the side, Draco lay on his back, still panting. He looked down his torso, the streaks of red from his nipple quite visible, and wrinkled his nose, “I need a bath.” 

Harry looked at his own body, sticky with come, and stained with Draco's blood.

“Me, too.”

“You'd better go first. I'll start it running,” Draco said, bestirring himself.

“Get in with me,” he blurted, knowing Draco would probably say no.

Draco stopped halfway to the bathroom and turned to look at Harry. “I beg your pardon?”

Harry's cheeks coloured. “Take a bath with me.”

Draco stared at Harry for a moment, then looked down the length of his long legs. “It'll be a bit of a squeeze.”

Exhaling, sure that Draco's reply had been an excuse not to, Harry said, “If you don't… it's fine. You go ahead.”

That predatory smile that always made Harry's stomach flip spread across Draco's face. “I don't think so.”

He'd been certain Draco would say no, and was in a shocked daze when Draco carried him to the warm bath, and lowered him into the water and slid in behind him. It took some slight manoeuvring, as Harry's shoulders were broader than Draco's, but his legs shorter, for both of them to fit, but they managed eventually to find a position comfortable enough for both of them. 

It was a bath that felt unlike any of the others for Harry. The way Draco touched him was completely different than it had been before, and all he could do was enjoy it. He was quiet for a long time, just enjoying the closeness and intimacy of sharing a bath with Draco. Eventually, though, his thoughts led him back to his condition, and the progress Draco and Bill had made so far.

“How much time before the next spell is removed?”

Draco did not answer immediately. “We're not quite there on the counter-curse. I want to be absolutely certain it's right.” He was quiet for a moment. “Ideally I'd like to test it on a live subject before I bring it anywhere near you, but the Ministry has _views_ on that. It would take months to get all the permissions for a formal study, and they'd probably try to take it – and your care – off me.”

“I don't want that,” Harry said, running his fingers up Draco's leg, the pale hairs kissing his fingertips. “So it could be a while, then, yeah?”

“But still quicker than if the Ministry became involved. I could do it faster, but only illegally.” He sounded as if he might be giving that rather more active contemplation than Harry would have liked.

“No. They'll take you back to Azkaban without any questions. That's not… no.”

Draco muttered something that sounded like 'only if they find out', but then said, “It's not the outcome I'm looking for, certainly.”

Wondering, Harry asked, “Am I going to get worse now?”

“Not in the short term, no. That charm of Snape's seems to have arrested the progress of the curse fairly effectively. Of course, if the curse had been in its true form, you'd have been hopelessly insane and either murdered, dead by your own hand, or permanently confined for your own safety and that of others by now.” 

A shudder ran through Harry, and Draco's hold on him tightened a bit. Harry relaxed slightly, resting his head on Draco's chest. He was trying to avoid moving too much; making the disfigured nipple bleed again was not something Harry wanted to do. 

Glad that he hadn't lost his mind, Harry said, “I feel different. My thoughts aren't as...” he made some vague gesture to illustrate his point, since a word to define how it felt wasn't forthcoming, “…they used to be. If that makes sense. I didn't notice the difference until now.” 

There was a ripple of tension in Draco's body that didn't quite make sense to Harry. “That makes perfect sense.” 

The tone, heavy with something that didn't sit right with him, made Harry twist to look at Draco. “What?” he asked, his expression questioning.

Draco shook his head sharply. “Call it residual vexation. If she hadn't inadvertently done you a service by changing the action of the curse, I should have felt impelled to kill her. As she did, of course, I can't. It's entirely possible,” he added, almost as if he were inclined to take it as a personal insult, “that this cu— _charm_ of hers actually saved your life.”

Shocked, Harry tried to form a response. “You'd… have…?” He couldn't decide whether he wanted to yell at Draco for his own recklessness or kiss him. Knowing that Ginny had helped him, without meaning to, didn't change how angry he was with her. But knowing that Draco would go that far for him… 

“Gleefully,” Draco replied, interrupting Harry's thoughts, his tone once again clear that there shouldn't be any doubt.

A wave of confusing warmth spread through Harry, and his heart began to beat faster, his breath shallow as he tried to wrap his head round someone being willing to go that far for him. 

“What?” Draco asked, the note of concern evident.

“I... I've never been that important to anyone before,” he replied, slightly in awe.

Draco learned forward and put his nose in Harry's hair, his arms tightening around him once again. “Get used to it.”

“Why?” he asked, completely confused. He wasn't sure what to think or feel about what Draco had said. “I'm not clever, I'm not... anything. I've never done anything that I didn't have loads of help with. I don't know anything about being with—” he stopped himself from saying _a pure-blood_ , then continued, “—someone from your background.” Then, more to himself, “I probably never should have been an Auror… I didn't even earn that.”

Snorting lightly, Draco said, “I decline to minister to your vanity,” mitigating his severity by running his hand down Harry's body until he reached his cock, caressing it affectionately. “Washing your hair could be tricky at this angle.”

“Vanity?” Harry asked, distracted and amused. He shook his head. “Mmm. 'M getting tired. Can wait 'til later.”

“Alright. Hold on; I need to get out before I can move you.” 

Draco worked his way out of the bath, then helped Harry up. His not having slept at all during the night was catching up with him, and he dozed lightly as Draco dried himself, then Harry. After being carried and placed in bed, Harry felt Draco slide in behind him, and sighed softly as warm lips pressed into his neck as he drifted off to sleep.

When Harry woke next, he felt like he hadn't slept at all. Awareness was slow to come, and he took the proffered plate of fruit and toast without argument. Draco was still nearby, already dressed, and Harry imagined waiting for him to finish eating, so that his diurnal physio could be taken care of and Draco could begin whatever testing he needed to. 

Lacking much of an appetite, Harry mumbled that he was finished, then fell asleep again as Draco stretched his limbs. Briefly woken by the slide of pyjamas over his hips, Harry sat up long enough to put a shirt on, then settled against the pillows and closed his eyes, once again falling asleep.

Too-bright sunlight left its fingerprint across the bed, and Harry turned slightly, a soft groan slipping from his lips as he tried to stretch. There was a soft knock at the door as Harry reached for his glasses, and Mrs Prout came into focus as he settled them on his nose. 

“Good afternoon, Harry. Would you like some lunch?”

“Yes, thank you, Eleanor.” It was obvious from Draco's absence that he wouldn't be joining Harry for lunch, so, remembering that Molly had written that Ron was keeping his distance until Harry asked to see him, before she could close the door, Harry said, “Would you mind sending for Auror Weasley? See if he wants to have lunch down here?” 

“Of course,” she replied and the door clicked closed softly behind her.

A smile lifted Harry's lips as he scratched his stomach and manoeuvred into a sitting position. As he shifted, he noticed immediately that the bedding wasn't the same that had been on the bed the previous evening, and he flushed brightly, realising that Draco must have asked Mrs Prout to change it while they had been bathing that morning. 

While he was waiting for Ron, Harry relieved his bladder and situated his pyjamas again, a soft knock at the door stealing his attention. At his call, the door opened and Ron stepped through, followed by Mrs Prout. Ever vigilant, she brought him a moist towel to clean his hands, then helped him to reposition himself so he could eat comfortably. Ron took a seat in the chair beside the bed, his eyes scanning the bedroom, and waited. 

Before Mrs Prout could leave, Harry said, “Narcissa said you have some photos from Hightrees. I'd like to see them, if you don't mind.”

“Certainly, Harry,” she said, smiling, then left him and Ron alone. 

“How are you feeling?” Ron asked the moment the door had closed, giving them privacy. “You gave us a right scare there for a while. Malfoy wouldn't let anyone near you.”

“Better,” Harry replied, beginning his lunch.

“I thought you were going to stay pissed off for a while, you know,” Ron admitted taking a bite of his bread. “Gin, she… I could bloody strangle her for what she did.”

“Thanks.”

“Mum's been beside herself since Bill told us what happened.” Ron's demeanour was nervous, almost as though he expected Harry to make him leave if he pushed his luck too far. 

Harry really didn't want to think about Ginny right then, so he decided to change the subject. “Congratulations on the baby.”

“Thanks, mate,” Ron said, a slow grin livening his features. “Healer said it's a boy.”

“Thought of any names yet?”

“No. Mum and me were talking about using one of the family names, but 'Mione's not too keen on it.” His face took on an uncharacteristically troubled look, crinkling around the eyes and mouth and making him appear years older. “'Mione's not too keen on quite a lot of things. Anything Mum says, really. She says she feels smothered.” He turned mutely appealing eyes on Harry. He had said the last on a faintly questioning, doubtful note, as if he wanted Harry to explain or dismiss it. Harry took a leaf out of Draco's book of ways to avoid conversations he didn't want to have, and fixed his attention firmly on his plate, stuffing a forkful of liver into his mouth so that he couldn't possibly be expected to speak. Ron went on uneasily, “I don't get it. This is our first baby, and Mum had seven of us. 'S only natural Mum knows more about it than 'Mione does, and it's not like you can learn this stuff out of a book, is it? And using family names is… I mean, just 'cause 'Mione's family don't do it…” He trailed off and shook his head, apparently baffled. “But she says we should call him something _we_ picked ourselves, not something off a list somebody else approved. I just don't know.” 

Harry shrugged. “Doesn't matter as long as he's a Weasley, yeah?” he asked, even though he knew how important names were to some of the older wizard families. 

“It's more than that. It's tradition, almost.”

“I know. I was named after my dad, but… he was a bit of an arse. I can't see children with my name. Can you imagine that?” Even when he'd thought about having children with Ginny, Harry had always worried about how they'd be perceived just from having the name Potter. Remembering Snape's treatment, which he hadn't exactly helped by proving he could be just as bad as his father had been, had made him have some serious reservations about his family name. They'd probably have had the same stigma attached to them that Harry had had his whole life and only known once he reached Hogwarts. Not only that, but he'd worried they'd be expected to be just like him, and he didn't want them to suffer the expectations and pre-judgements that would invariably arise from being Harry Potter's children.

“What are you on about? I'm proud of being a Weasley,” he said matter-of-factly. “You should be proud of your name, Harry.”

Harry shook his head. “My name is a curse. Any children I have, if I ever have any, will probably be expected always to act a certain way, or they'll become someone's bloody punching bag – or worse, given everything they want – just because of my surname. Everyone knew who I was before I did when I went to Hogwarts – the same thing is going to happen to them. And I don't want that.”

“Whatever you say, mate,” Ron said, his attention moving to the bed again. Harry followed his gaze to the bedside table, the volume of Latin poetry that Draco was reading sitting there, along with his watch, a carafe of water, and other detritus. Blue eyes shifted to the slightly rumpled sheets on the empty side of the bed, following the line to the headboard and the indentation left in the pillow angled slightly to the side that Draco slept on. “So he sleeps with you, then?” 

Harry nodded, chewing a piece of bread, his face flushing slightly. 

“I don't get it,” Ron said, but there was no judgement in his tone. “S'ppose he's alright, what with the way he called for Aurors when the reporters showed up, and got you out of Diagon safe, and stuff. Bill said he's basically a decent bloke, but I still see Ferret Face.”

“I don't want to talk about this, Ron,” Harry said, taking a sip of water. Trying to explain to Ron that Draco had changed – at some point – would be pointless. As long as he could keep it clear enough in Ron's head that the Draco he loved and the Draco they'd gone to school with were two completely different men, he would count himself lucky. What had happened to change Draco's outlook, apart from what Harry had already learned from Narcissa, still bothered him, though. Asking someone else would be his only option, but he didn't know anyone that knew Draco well enough. _Parkinson,_ his mind prodded gently. How he could have forgotten Parkinson, he didn't know, but he resolved to have Mrs Prout send her an owl when the housekeeper returned to take their plates. If she were willing to talk to Harry, maybe he'd have a bit more information to piece together how Draco had become the man he was. 

There was a soft mutter that Harry couldn't decipher, and needing to change the subject, he asked, “Did Hermione decide to come here, or is she staying at Wood End?”

Ron sighed, then sat back in the chair. “She's here.” He sighed again. “You know, ever since she got pregnant, things haven't been right, and I don't know what to do. I got her flowers and chocolates and all that, but it's not working. Not like it used to.”

Harry nodded, unsure what to say. He was caught between his two best friends and their marriage problems, and he really didn't want to be.

“I just wish I knew what the problem was.”

“I don't know,” Harry said. And he didn't. He could imagine, but he had enough of his own to worry about, without spoon-feeding answers to Ron – particularly since that would only end up aggravating Hermione and making matters worse anyway. 

Ron sighed again; Harry continued eating. 

“How much longer do you think you'll be... you know, like that?” Ron asked nervously after the silence had become too thick.

“I don't know,” Harry replied. “Draco's being cautious, so he doesn't want to try anything before it's been tested; he said something about testing it on a person, ideally, but he'd have to get permission, and the Ministry— It would take months that way, and he doesn't know whether I'll get worse or not before him and Bill get it right.”

Ron didn't respond, and Harry carried on eating his lunch slowly. Ron had already finished his.

“Gillick announced that you're not coming back,” Ron said abruptly. “Everyone asked how you were and all that. We've had a few Howlers – blaming me for Gin.” Ron looked a bit irritated by that, but it didn't stop him. “I'm going to miss working with you, but I think I understand why you don't want to come back.” Ron paused for a moment, then as though some sort of inspiration had just struck, he looked up with a grin. “Oh, and Angelina had the baby. A boy.”

Harry nodded wistfully, knowing that children were probably not going to be a part of his future. 

“You know—” Ron started to say, but he was interrupted by another knock at the door. 

He bade whoever was there enter, and Mrs Prout came in, a stack of photos in hand and a touch of uncertainty in her face.

“They're wizard photos,” she said. “Mister Malfoy would be cross with me if I let you hold them.”

“I'll do it,” Ron volunteered, and she handed them to him.

“Thank you, Eleanor. And, if you don't mind, would you send a letter to Parkinson – er – Pansy Boot? I'd like to talk to her when she has time.”

She smiled fondly and nodded, then left them alone again.

Ron began flipping through them before showing them to Harry. “You look like hell in some of these.”

“Let me see,” Harry said, and Ron held up a photo, slightly tilted to the side as though Mrs Prout hadn't known how to work the camera, of Harry waving to the children in the charmed snow, their tribute to Harry in the background. He looked closer as it cycled through and saw Draco standing in the doorway for a moment, watching him. The mask had slipped, and his expression easily readable to Harry now: concern. Then Harry turned in the photo, a smile on his face, and the inscrutable mask was back in place before the images recycled again, but seeing that small, intimate moment made warmth spread through him. To know that as far back as Christmas, Draco had been genuinely concerned for his wellbeing was exciting. 

Ron looked at Harry's expression and asked, “What?”

“It's nothing,” Harry said. “Will you put that one on the table?”

Ron's expression registered confusion, but he did it anyway. Harry didn't care. He wanted to keep that photo. 

“Why did you want to see these?” Ron asked.

Harry explained about Mrs Prout's children having trouble at Hogwarts, and Ron nodded. They chatted for a bit longer, then Ron had to return to work: he and Dawlish were due to relieve a couple of the others. When Mrs Prout came to gather his things from lunch, he asked her if she would frame the photo that seemed more focussed on him and Draco than the children, and let her know he would be writing to the children. Her gratitude was overwhelming, and Harry flushed slightly at the attention. 

Before she left, she said that Parkinson had replied and would be calling before dinner. He thanked her for sending the owl, then asked her to put a new DVD in for him, and he settled comfortably again, closing his eyes. He was still tired from staying awake all night, and wanted to be a bit more rested.

**~*~*~*~**

Hermione seemed quite tired to Harry. Even more so than the last time he'd seen her, and he felt bad for her. She and Bill had decided to join Harry for dinner. Thankfully neither of them stood on any ceremony and were fine with him still being in his pyjamas. Mrs Prout had been kind enough to help him out of bed when Pansy had arrived. No matter how uncomfortable he was with asking for others' help, he knew that he shouldn't always rely on his Healer for everything. Since Draco hadn't joined them, he gathered that their conversation the previous evening was keeping him sequestered in his study, or wherever he liked to hide when they had any sort of emotional discussions. He tried not to let that get to him, and was quite grateful that Bill and Hermione were there to distract him. 

“Did he send you down to keep me company?” Harry asked.

Bill looked at Harry oddly for a moment, then replied, “He said you might like a change of face.”

Harry scoffed. “So he is still sulking, then,” he said, more to himself than them directly, and took a sip of wine. 

Bill gave him a questioning look, but before Harry could answer, Hermione said, “Well, yes, actually, that makes sense: he would be a bit moody now you're stable.” 

“Hermione,” Bill warned. 

“He nearly lost you last week, after all,” Hermione continued, giving Bill an expression that dared him to challenge her further.

Bill made an exasperated comment that Harry didn't catch in his surprise.

“What?” Harry demanded. “What do you mean?”

“He didn't tell you?” she asked.

“Tell me what?”

She looked at him with those sad eyes and said, “You stopped breathing when the spell was removed.”

Shocked, Harry looked at Bill, an obviously reluctant nod meeting his questioning gaze.

“He didn't want to distress you,” Bill said as if that explained and excused everything. “You started again pretty quickly.”

Eyebrows knitted together. “Yeah,” Harry commented absently.

The rest of the meal passed uneventfully, Bill firmly and tactfully restricting them to neutral topics of conversation. He'd received an odd look when he'd asked, in honest curiosity, whether either of them knew whether wizards could marry. To his genuine surprise, he'd found out they could, but he decided that wasn't something he wanted to think about then. He felt silly for having asked – there were no guarantees that Draco's commitment ran that deeply, and Harry didn't even know if that was something Draco wanted. Shaking his head, he watched as Hermione left the packages Harry had requested on Draco's bedside table – there were a few books, some of the caramelised pecans Draco liked, and a Muggle GameBoy along with a few games – as Bill helped Harry back into bed. Harry hated that he couldn't sit up longer, but it had been a relatively busy day for him, and since he was practically in the same condition as he had been before Ginny's spell had been removed, his energy was easily siphoned away by the most basic of activities. 

Meeting with Pansy earlier that day had provided some much-needed elucidation about Draco's past, but he knew he'd still need to ask Narcissa for more information. He needed to know what had happened between Lucius and Draco before he'd been taken to Azkaban – that had apparently been the turning point for the changes that had made Draco into the man he'd become. 

Thoughts were racing like Seekers chasing a Snitch: Hermione's statement about Harry's having stopped breathing when the spell had been removed only served to solidify the cold knot of fear that continued to tighten around him that he'd die; then there were all of the family issues that seemed to keep cropping up – Bill and Fleur having a baby, Ron and Hermione having a baby, George and Angelina having a baby – and it all made him wonder what the hell he had, what he and Draco were exactly. The need for a definition other than lover, something less abstract, gnawed at him. 

Then there was the fact that Ginny had been released from Auror custody, but she was being tracked very carefully by the Ministry and press-vultures who weren't camping outside of the Manor's gates. It hacked him off more than he liked that she'd got away so easily, simply because the spell hadn't been classified as Dark Magic. Hermione had reluctantly shown him the most recent headlines from the _Prophet_ , and the photo of Ginny, unusually splotchy-faced, her hand raised high to ward the photographer off. All of the attention, as she liked, was on her, just not for the sort of reason she'd always wanted, and he found himself bitterly grinding his teeth. He supposed, like Draco had said, she'd inadvertently saved his life, but it still pissed him off that she was already back at the Burrow.

Exhausted beyond his limits, Harry closed his eyes, still unable to calm the thoughts that felt like they were each clambering for his attention. Eventually sleep came. 

When he woke, it was to the sound of Draco moving around in the bedroom, and the rush of water filling the bathtub. 

“Hey,” Harry said sleepily.

“How are you feeling?” Draco asked automatically – Harry wondered if some things would ever change. Not that he wanted them to, but he was looking forward to the day when the first thing he heard when he woke up wasn't a question about his health.

“Tired. 'M fine, though.”

“Are you ready for your bath?”

“Yeah.” 

Lacking the energy to, and knowing that when Draco was sulking, getting much more than evasive replies would be impossible, Harry didn't force any conversation; instead, he closed his eyes and dozed while his body was cleaned. 

In bed after his stretches, Harry stopped Draco before he could disappear again. “Why didn't you tell me I stopped breathing?” he asked quietly.

“I didn't see that it would serve any purpose beyond distressing you needlessly.” Harry sighed, the amplified sense of his fear feeling uncomfortable. “It was for less than a minute, and you only did it once. You've held your breath for longer than that.”

“It happened at St Mungo's,” Harry said.

“It was only once _this time_ , Potter. I haven't made a tally of the number of times in your entire life you've stopped breathing.”

“Three.” Harry's tone was distant.

“Your heart didn't stop, and your breathing didn't stutter once it was re-started. Do you want me to give you _all_ the details?”

“No,” Harry said truthfully, a lump in his throat.

Draco nodded. “Good. I was considerably more concerned by the pain and weakness afterwards than by that.”

Absently, Harry nodded, and he pulled the covers over his naked body, closing his eyes as the door clicked closed.

**~*~*~*~**

The comfortable weight of Draco's arm wrapped around Harry's body was the first thing he was aware of when he blinked awake at the sunlight streaming through the bedroom windows. Moving Draco's arm so he could relieve his bladder, Harry reached for his bottle, feeling the bed shift as Draco got up and went to the bathroom, his long body stretching, his hard cock deliciously visible as he arched, then entered the bathroom. 

He returned, the reflexive, “How are you feeling?” coming almost the moment he crossed the threshold.

“Fine,” Harry replied, if a bit melancholy. 

Draco asked him a few more questions, and he answered, starting his physio.

Following stretches, Draco helped Harry dress, then get out of bed to have a seat in his chair. Draco had obviously noticed the new items on his bedside table: he thanked Harry with apparent sincerity, but needed to be shown how to operate the GameBoy. For a few distracted minutes, Draco tried to work out how to play with the Muggle toy, his face a study in concentration, to Harry's satisfied amusement. 

All of his thoughts from the previous evening hadn't left him alone, but he refrained from dragging them into the morning routine, despite his need for a proper definition of what they were to one another. The need to know, Harry thought, stemmed from so many years of being in an established relationship, of having a proper label and title, and because what he had with Draco wasn't matching up to anything he understood properly, it was slightly distressing. All the talk of babies and families had played havoc with his psyche.

There was a knock at the bedroom door after Draco had left, and he called out permission to enter, not really sure he felt like spending time with anyone. He rather felt like crawling back into bed and sleeping away his confusion, but he was well aware that Draco wouldn't allow that. He might have been attempting to come to terms with Harry's emotional discord at the moment, but he was still acting as a Healer should, some of the cool distance from the earlier days of their interaction slipping through, made more evident by the lack of any affection before he disappeared for the day. 

Mrs Prout brought Harry's breakfast, offering her company, and he tried to be receptive, but it was difficult. When Mrs Prout got up to turn off the TV, Harry's attention finally focussed again. She didn't seem to take offence at his lack of interaction, and he appreciated it. He wasn't entirely certain he could share the sort of thoughts that were running through his mind with anyone other than Draco, and even then, he knew they weren't always understood, not when they viewed things so differently sometimes. 

Mrs Prout asked if Harry was ready for some lunch – he'd lost track of time again – and he nodded. She left, and he relieved himself again, waiting for her to return. 

There was another knock at the door not long after Mrs Prout had left, which made Harry curious. He hadn't been expecting anyone. 

“Come in!” he called out.

The door opened and Luna, with her head tilted to the side slightly, smiled, then walked in. “Hello, Harry,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

Harry smiled. “All right.”

“I brought you something.” She walked to the TV and studied the components for a few moments, pressing the buttons to open the tray once she had worked out the proper ones. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked.

“You'll see,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

Slightly nervous about what Luna was putting in the player, he tried to wait patiently. He heard the whirr of the tray closing, then the disk loaded. Harry's eyes widened in shock, and he sputtered a few times, trying to form the words he needed. “Luna!” he finally managed. 

Lunging for the remote control, he finally got a grip on it, turning off the power. “Don't bring any more DVDs, please,” he said, flushing brilliantly. 

Her eyes widened. “I thought you liked having something to watch.”

Harry choked. “Films, Luna, not… p-porn.” He cleared his throat. “Watching Draco… is better than that.”

A misty smile curved Luna's lips. “Yes. It is.”

“Hermione can bring films, okay? If you want to bring something… help me get some things for Draco. To keep him busy.” 

Luna nodded and took a seat in the armchair beside the bed, still smiling. 

Harry cast a glance at the TV and, despite his objection to Luna playing the DVD, an honest curiosity, not prurient interest, arose. He thought me might be able to learn something useful, something that would show Draco he'd honestly given thought and effort to pleasing him in return. 

They spent a while chatting about inconsequential things, and eventually Harry awkwardly tried to explain his lack of understanding for what he and Draco were. Knowing that Luna had some insight into Draco, he thought that asking her, or at least explaining his side of things, might help it make more sense. If he could get someone else's opinion, putting the pieces together – understanding – might be a bit easier for him. Fumbling for the right words, he eventually said what was on his mind, his fear that Draco wasn't _his_.

Apparently bewildered by Harry's statement, Luna looked up. “He is. He wouldn't let me kiss him today.”

The flash of possessive pride that burned through Harry made him turn to look at Luna. 

“Don't kiss him,” he said sharply, having only registered that she'd said 'kiss him' in reference to Draco. 

She blinked. “I didn't. I just told you, he wouldn't let me. He told me I can't, any more. I'm not to touch his hands, either.” Her expression was mournful.

That Draco had refused her made Harry happy, but it still didn't give him the answers he needed or wanted. He sighed, realising that he'd have to speak to Narcissa, assuming she didn't avoid the question completely. 

Luna sat with Harry late into the afternoon, keeping him company. She did well enough to distract him, but like a Niffler searching for Galleons, his thoughts continued to return to the same things over and over again until Mrs Prout was at the door again, asking him if he'd like to join Narcissa for dinner. He nodded and sighed, wondering how long Draco would sulk this time. He was trying not to push – not to ask for anything. Solemnly, he nodded and left for the dining room, affecting a smile that took more effort than it should have. He'd always enjoyed Narcissa's company, but right then he didn't feel like being around people. Part of him suspected that Draco had been making sure he wasn't alone for very long – why, he didn't know. 

Narcissa shook her head as Harry stopped at the dining table. “None of that, Harry, thank you.”

Confused, Harry looked at her. 

“If you don't feel disposed to smile, do not smile. You know that you needn't stand upon ceremony with me.” 

Harry flushed brilliantly, nodding his head. 

“I would not force a confidence for the world, but if it would relieve your mind to talk to me, Harry...”

There was too much on his mind, too many things, and many of them he honestly didn't want to discuss with Narcissa. He'd confided in her before about more personal matters, but he couldn't talk about sex with her, or talk about his discussion with Draco. Those were details he found much too personal to ask for advice on. Remembering his talk with Parkinson, he realised he could at least seek more in-depth information than Pansy had been able to give. 

Hoping that she'd be willing to give him at least a minimal understanding, he said, “I talked to Pansy Parkinson. I wanted to... get to know Draco better.” He sighed. “She told me something happened between Draco and his father, but she didn't know what. She said that's when everything changed between them, and I suppose I just wondered what happened.”

Narcissa inclined her head. “Quite understandable. But is that all that's troubling you? I can tell you what I know of it, of course, though I don't believe I'm privy to the whole.” 

Flushing again, Harry said, “I'd rather not, um, discuss the other. But would you tell me about what happened?”

She inclined her head again. “As you wish. But I trust that you will not require invitation to seek counsel should you change your mind. As to the cause of the rift between my son and my late husband... well, it is probably as you would expect. Draco's views underwent a considerable alteration between his seventeenth and nineteenth birthdays. His father's did not.” She paused. “Lucius reproached Draco for his... lack of drive to establish himself in the world. For his total want of desire to place himself for political power.”

Harry took a sip of wine, slowly beginning his meal as Narcissa spoke.

“Draco expressed... disbelief that his father could expect such ambitions in him. Disbelief that his father could still believe it possible for a Malfoy to hold high office. That conversation did not end well. Lucius accused Draco of a certain... want of character.” She paused meditatively, seeming to remember something she didn't much care for. “It became impossible for them to be in the same room with out some acrimonious exchange. But I believe the... ah, beginning of the end began when Lucius reproached Draco with failing the family. Draco, I think, had been tried too far. He had endured several hours of interviews with Aurors again, and his—” her lips curled derisively, “—'counselling' appointment at the Ministry. I have never heard him employ such language, or such venom. He accused his father of having set the path of our ruin in motion before Draco himself had even been born. He accused him of raising him a bigot and... considerably worse.” 

Narcissa lowered her gaze for a moment, then met Harry's eyes. “And Lucius regrettably disclosed that his opinions on blood and worth were unchanged. And that he had every intention, once the - ah - dust had settled, of supporting the residual movement for... the application of special privileges to those of pure blood, and a certain regulation of those not of pure blood. And, further, that he expected his son to stand squarely at his side in all his manoeuvrings. Draco rejected the notion rather violently.”

Narcissa's grip on her cutlery had tightened throughout her telling of what had happened, her knuckles slowly turning white. “Lucius suggested that it was no more than Draco's duty, since he had failed so spectacularly in all else expected of him. I... was not privy to the rest of the confrontation.” 

“But it continued? Lucius didn't stop there?” Harry asked.

“Unfortunately so. Draco... exercised considerable restraint. I was impressed. He Apparated away. I went in search of him, of course, but... Lucius found him first. I was summoned by a house-elf to the old blue drawing room. My husband and my son were sealed within, and... it was clear that they were... at odds.” 

Duelling was the first thing that popped to mind at Narcissa's words. She appeared to be lost in a reverie, abstracted and disturbed by what she was remembering. Harry felt a stab of guilt for having asked. 

“I was unable to force entry myself. I am not of Malfoy blood. But the house-elves could. It took half a dozen of them.” She hesitated for a moment. “I... was unwise.” 

“Unwise?” Harry asked.

“I attempted to intervene. You must understand, Harry, that I was terribly afraid. I should have summoned Aurors; I knew that even then, but with the weight of evidence already so heavy against both of them...” Her jaw clenched tightly as her attention shifted to her wine glass. “I couldn't lose both of them.” Steadying herself, she continued, “So I stepped between them. Draco aborted his curse. Lucius... did not.” 

Harry felt a rush of anger toward Draco's father.

“It was, in truth, entirely my doing. But Draco never forgave his father, and his father... never demonstrated sufficient contrition to satisfy Draco.” 

“Is that why he took responsibility? At the trials?” 

“I... believe his motive was more disinterested than that. He recognised, how ever little he liked it, that Draco's argument about the stain on the family name and honour had merit. By absorbing as much of it as possible himself, he spared the line's heir. Drew the culpability back a generation, one might say. Which was no more than fair.” 

Harry nodded his understanding. “Thank you, Narcissa.” He knew what that had cost her to tell him that story, and he appreciated it more than he could appropriately convey.

She inclined her head again. “It may be... wisest not to indicate to Draco that you know this.” 

“I understand,” Harry said.

She nodded again, and slowly began to eat. Harry followed suit. The only sounds for a long time were of their forks or a slight movement to reach for a glass, and needing to break that with something, curiosity again motivated Harry to inquire after something he'd been wondering about. 

“What does Draco look like when he plays the cello?”

Narcissa laughed. “I have no idea, I'm afraid. He won't have me watch him.” 

“I'd like to see him... I'm surprised he won't let you watch him.”

“My son has a number of harmless idiosyncrasies; that happens to be among them. I have no doubt he would allow you to do so, however.”

Harry scoffed slightly. “Maybe once he gets over what I did this time and stops hiding.” 

A faint smile lightened the shadowed edges of Narcissa's expression. “You know very well that all you have to do is request his presence and keep him near you if you want him to stop sulking.”

“S'ppose,” Harry said, finishing his meal. 

Narcissa excused herself – which Harry understood – after bidding him a good evening. He returned to the bedroom and asked Mrs Prout to help him back into bed, too tired to stay awake much longer. He'd pushed himself too far two days in a row, and he could feel it. 

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep. 

When he woke again, Draco was preparing the bath. Harry opened his eyes slowly, a smile softening the tension in his face. “Ho' w's your day?” he asked sleepily.

“Unproductive. How was Lovegood?”

“Mmm, she was Luna,” he said, turning over on his back. “Told me what you did.” Draco's eyebrow rose a fraction. “Not letting her kiss you,” he clarified. “Or touch your hands.” That had meant a lot to Harry. 

Draco merely made a brief sound of acknowledgement. 

“Come here,” Harry said.

Draco's eyebrow quirked, but he complied.

“Lie down with me.”

As Draco settled next to him, Harry kissed him, showing Draco how much he appreciated the refusal to allow Luna those familiar intimacies. 

“I like that I'm the only one who can do this,” Harry said, looking into Draco's eyes.

Lowering his head, Draco kissed him. “You are,” he said.

“Yeah?” Harry asked playfully, a brief smile flickering across his face. “Good. You're the only one who can do this, too, you know.”

Draco smiled lasciviously. “Good.” He leant forward, working his mouth along Harry's jaw, forcing a loud moan from his lips. 

Rearing back, Draco eyed Harry speculatively for a moment.

“Wha'?” he asked, breathless. 

“I think… if you feel equal to it… I'd like to find out how you taste. And how you wail.”

Harry felt like his voice was stuck somewhere between his throat and his teeth – the words 'taste' and 'wail' having become synonymous in his mind with Draco's having wanked for him imagining the taste of his arse – and nodded slowly.

Draco stood up and disrobed, all lean strength emanating from his tall frame, then helped Harry out of his clothes. Harry had never been more thankful for Draco's fastidious nature then: if Draco hadn't always taken so much trouble to clean him up after moving his bowels, he had a feeling he'd have been a lot more nervous about what was about to be done to him than he was. 

Harry allowed Draco to turn him over on his stomach, his entire body thrumming with excitement. Fingertips ran the length of his spine, making him arch into the touch, a soft moan escaping his lips. His thighs quivered slightly as Draco's palms pressed against the muscle, thumbs curling into the inner part of Harry's legs, spreading them open. Harry wished he could twist around to see what Draco was doing, but all he could do was lie still, his desire a waterfall crashing around him, filling his lungs. His body, unused to the sort of sensation it experienced then, the lips moving softly against the easily excited skin at the joining-point of buttock and thigh, had become Draco's fully. The intoxicating feel of lips and mouth, hands, fingers, breath, sent a thrill of excitement and nervous anticipation through him that rippled across his skin at the feeling of Draco's thumbs parting his arse, his palms spread flat against the swell of his backside, and fingertips reaching his hips.

No one had ever touched Harry the way Draco was; each tender, worshipful caress made his entire body melt against the bedding for Draco's pleasure. And Harry was certain, based on each movement of nose against skin, the inhales that followed exhales, tickling Harry's skin, that Draco enjoyed hearing the anticipatory moans and feeling the reflexive tautening of Harry's muscles.

In such a short span of time, Draco had efficiently learned the places that exacted the most pleasure, and, never having experienced that before, Harry's mind tried to convince him that he was just dreaming, that he'd wake up and it would all be gone. The teasing quality of the tongue running against his skin urged more appreciative moans from his lips, until he could swear there was a gathering of them, substantial before his mouth. 

He was aware of each touch that left his skin tingling, his cock pressing into the mattress. A long moan was drawn from him as pleasure like he'd never felt before spread through him when Draco's tongue finally extended fully and ran from just above his balls to his arse, the slight pressure delicious, almost tangible against his own tongue.

It began with slow, teasing licks that progressed as he relaxed completely. The sensation was exquisite as saliva eased the movement against his already-burning nerves, and each swipe that promised more, promised deeper, sent waves of heat through him that made his fingers curl tightly in the bedding, until he couldn't hold onto it any longer. 

When Draco's tongue finally penetrated him, his entire awareness had narrowed to the incoherent sounds of ecstasy that urged the gentle, wet thrusts of Draco's tongue in and out of his arse to speed up slightly. Coherence left him, and he fell into the depths of sensation, his mind cloudy as he begged for more. 

In. Out. Shallow. Deeper. Slow. Fast. Something inside Harry snapped. His throat was dry, and he'd lost all sense of reality, letting the rhythm guide him until he felt the unexpected but completely desired fire of orgasm rip through him, his breath hitching and shallow with the offering of appreciation for Draco's efforts.

He lay panting, another low groan coming as Draco licked him once more, his teeth nipping gently at Harry's arse, followed by a light caress, as he got up from the bed. 

As Harry regained his senses, he turned over with Draco’s help, his hand in the centre of his chest as he tried to remember ever feeling anything so incredible in his life. He was slightly embarrassed that it hadn't lasted long, but with such dedication to Harry's pleasure, Draco had made it impossible not to lose what little control he did have. 

Harry watched Draco exit the bathroom, and squinted, seeing the unutterably smug expression on his face, also noting a conspicuous erection that Harry had the urge to touch, to taste.

“C-can I taste you?” Harry asked, his face flushing brilliantly.

Draco laughed. “It's an acquired taste. And logistically difficult, at the moment.”

“Your cock,” he clarified. “I want to taste your cock. You. Anything you'll give.”

Draco's expression sharpened immediately, his excitement at the prospect evident. “You've never done it before.” 

_No, but if you let me, I will._ Harry wasn't sure if the statement, like the one about it being a squeeze when he'd invited Draco to bathe with him, was merely an observation or meant to be a deterrent. Hoping it wasn't one of Draco's famously ambiguous statements meant to lead him off track, he said honestly, “I want to.”

Nodding, Draco returned to the bed, lounging on his side. He helped Harry into a comfortable position. Having no idea what to do, he took Draco's cock with one hand and ran tentative fingertips from the head to the base, just to feel him, reacquaint himself with his body. The taut skin was soft to the touch, and, finally gaining some form of confidence, he extended his tongue, timidly pressing it against the head of Draco's cock. He liked the feel of it against his mouth, and inhaled the sweet, intoxicating scent of Draco's body. Opening his mouth further, he closed his eyes, taking Draco in. He had no idea what he was doing, and hoped the jerk that had followed him closing his lips had been a good sign. 

Slowly, he used his tongue to press against the underside of Draco's prick. His jaw was already starting to ache when he moved lower, hoping to get more of Draco in his mouth. Worried if he was doing it right – the controlled silence eating away at him – Harry looked up at Draco, angling his head the wrong way, his gag reflex kicking in immediately, a muffled sound of protest trapped, when he felt Draco's prick slip further. His teeth scraped slightly, and Draco cringed, jerking away. 

Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself. Looking at him, Draco stroked his jaw lightly in encouragement, then guided his mouth back to his cock. Wanting to reciprocate the pleasure, Harry opened his mouth again, liking the feel of Draco's hand on the back of his scalp. Draco was gentle with his movements, never forcing more than Harry could handle. 

As he found himself enjoying the tightening of Draco's fingers against his head, he slid his mouth further down the long shaft. That his jaw was aching from the new exercise didn't matter – he just wanted Draco to enjoy it.

There wasn't much of Draco's cock in his mouth, so he lowered his mouth again, going too far, and he had to pull away again as he felt his gorge rise against the pressure in the back of his throat. He muttered an apology and tried again.

When he realised that he should breathe through his nose, he had an easier time of it, and got back into the slow rhythm. Harry had no idea how long he'd been experimenting with moving his tongue around and sucking back as he tried to keep from catching the sensitive skin with his teeth, and was surprised when Draco suddenly released his hold on him, head connecting with the headboard as he rolled onto his back, his hand moving swiftly up and down his cock. 

Draco was breathing quickly, and Harry watched his face, the sharp edges softening into the expression Harry wished he could see more often as pleasure eradicated control. Harry wondered if he should have been more captivated by the eruption of semen, but he wasn't. Draco's shift from control to the loss of it was so much more intimate than the easily wiped away – and replicated – evidence of orgasm. He lay still for a few moments, then got out of bed, heading straight to the bathroom. Harry heard the bath start, and watched as Draco pressed the button to call Mrs Prout. He flushed, knowing that it would be obvious what he and Draco had been doing. 

There was a bitter taste on his tongue, and his jaw was sore from doing something he was unaccustomed to. When Draco made his way toward the bed, Harry sat up and was lifted effortlessly. The warm water felt fantastic as it folded around him, and the temptation to ask Draco to join him again was strong, but he was reluctant to ask for anything beyond his basic care needs at present. The last thing he wanted was Draco to resent him for pushing anything.

Draco's face was characteristically impassive as he bathed Harry, and he didn't speak. His silence while Harry had been – admittedly inexpertly – sucking him off returned to Harry's mind, and unease began to rise. It quickly became too much, and even though he dreaded the answer, Harry had to make sure. As a brilliant red crept across his face, he looked at Draco and asked, “I-I know, um, it wasn't... like you do for me, but... did you... enjoy me sucking your cock... at all?” 

Draco frowned. “I realise I pulled back quite quickly, but there ought to be something of an aftertaste answering that question for you.”

Harry looked at his hands. “S'ppose. I, uh, didn't hurt you, did I? With my teeth?”

“Potter, I did considerably worse the first time I made the attempt. You did very well.”

Harry sighed slightly, hating his lack of sexual experience. Firm fingers took hold of Harry's chin and made him look Draco in the eye.

“I can't remember the last time I had one I enjoyed more. Your technique could use work, yes, but I can't fault your enthusiasm.” 

Harry smiled slightly. 

“And since you'll be practising on _me_ , I can't really complain about your technique needing work, can I?” 

Elation that Draco seemed receptive to the idea of Harry actually trying again spread through him. He'd worried that his inexperienced clumsiness might have put Draco off to the idea completely. “I want to... Do it again, I mean.”

Draco smiled. “And so you shall.”

Harry smiled in return, and enjoyed the bath. Draco took him to the freshly-made bad, then went back to the bathroom, to clean up, Harry supposed, and he closed his eyes, dozing until Draco returned. 

He turned on his back when Draco turned on the TV, and remembering the DVD Luna had put in the player, he flushed brightly. He realised he must have just turned the TV off rather than actually stopping the player when the masculine groans permeated the room, along with the sound of skin slapping against skin.

“Fuck, Luna brought it,” Harry said. “I didn't ask her to, but after I saw it… I thought I might be able to learn something.” 

Draco looked at him and scowled. “From that?” He gestured in displeasure at the screen.

“I-I wanted… to do more for you…”

“I like what you do for me now, thanks,” Draco said, his disapprobation evident. In the background, the DVD had moved on to a scene involving a position that Harry would previously have sworn anatomically impossible and two ordinary household items he would never be able to look at in quite the same way again, and Harry flushed at seeing the two men. “If I wanted a practiced seducer, I'd retain the services of a whore.”

“That's... not what I meant. I just wanted to be able to please you as much as you please me.” He sighed, knowing no answer would be sufficient. “Would you please just turn it off?” Harry was feeling thoroughly chastised and embarrassed.

“You do, you cretin. By being who you are. Not some... whatever those _are_.” He gestured at the screen again. 

“Please turn it off.”

Draco glanced at the screen derisively. “Good grief, is that supposed to be attractive? Why on earth would anyone want to look at hi—? Oh. That can't possibly be natural.” 

Disliking Draco’s contradictory words and behaviour, Harry tried to turn over, but he was too tired. 

“I-I don't like watching it. They make too much noise. You... don't.”

Draco smirked. 

“And it isn't you.”

The TV power turned off, and Draco chucked the remote away. “No. This is, though,” he said, running his hand up Harry’s thigh. “And _this_ , unless I'm very much mistaken, would be _you_.” Draco stopped at Harry's balls, his hand sliding over them, a throaty moan erupting from Harry's lips in response. 

Harry couldn't believe that his cock was getting hard again, and he tipped his head back when Draco shifted, running a hand down Harry's steadily rising and falling chest, feather-light caresses across his ribs. When Draco's mouth surrounded his prick and swallowed him, Harry's mind shut down. It didn't take long for him to harden completely given the way Draco's throat felt around his cock, all snug, wet heat. Draco's voracity for his body, his pleasure, was addictive, and for the first time, he reached out a shaking hand and ran his fingers through the pale strands of fringe that shifted, veiling Draco's face. Moving it aside, he watched his cock disappear into Draco's mouth over and over again. Mesmerised, Harry's hand fell away, his chest heaving as the tension recoiled, one hand pressing into his hip in just the right way, until he had been drawn into the depths of orgasm, Draco's mouth still wrapped around him, and all sense of reality became shadowy, indecipherable. His hips jerked involuntarily at the gentle swipe of Draco's tongue across his sensitive head, making him shiver slightly. 

He was still panting when Draco rolled him onto his side, cradling Harry against his body. He lay completely relaxed, and threaded his fingers through Draco's across his abdomen.

“'M glad we're— what are we?” he asked sleepily.

“Each other's,” came the soft response that said nothing and everything all at once.

To Be Continued…


	29. Chapter 29

To my partner in bringing this story to life: Rom, you are, without a doubt, the most supportive and patient woman alive – I know working through getting Harry to see what’s in front of him has been trying! Thank you for everything. Draco and Narcissa would not be who they are without your unwavering support and dedication.

****

Chapter 29: Mending the Cracks

The slip of parchment clutched in Harry’s fingers was rough, its words like acid eroding at his heart, his mind. Simple lines of poor construction, much like the previous letter, were scrawled on the page. Harry swallowed, staring at the ceiling as he remembered the words, trying to force his emptiness into something – to make it whole, make it less decaying. If he could fill it up somehow, he could ignore it, lock it away, not let it get to him, and he could forget it; but nothing he tried worked. Stinging resentment, a painful reminder of his relatives’ poor notion of childrearing, swelled until he felt like he might burst. When Harry had read the announcement in the _Daily Prophet_ that Dudley had married Millicent Bulstrode, he’d been too shocked to mention it to any of his friends. It was easier to ignore his past and his relatives if he didn’t talk about them, but Dudley’s recent correspondence had ripped open a wound that had never properly healed within him, and coupled with everything else he was dealing with, it left him feeling like a pile of shattered glass on the floor; he was helpless and completely incapable of fixing the damage that had been done, even if it hadn’t been intentional on Dudley’s part: Harry had asked how his aunt and uncle had reacted to having a wizard grandson. Accepting that was the only thing that kept him grounded – that and knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Mrs Prout knocked on the door and offered to stay with him while he ate dinner, but Harry declined, needing his solitude to piece together the tatters of his emotional fortitude. Vernon and Petunia had welcomed the newest addition to their family, regardless of the fact that he was a wizard – a freak, like they had considered Harry all his life. A familiar feeling of worthlessness cocooned him, tight and constricting. He wondered how they could have treated him so poorly all his life, then as though they had never been vile to him – a wizard – completely accepted Aloysius. Turning his head, he looked at the food on his bedside table, but his stomach was in knots; eating would be impossible. 

Adding the news of his aunt and uncle’s change of heart regarding magic, witches, and wizards, to the heavily mounting distress of Draco’s refusal to have sex with him, he was growing weary. It wasn’t as though Hermione hadn’t warned him about every minor detail regarding any physical damage he could sustain if Draco wasn’t careful enough, and that in his state, an attempt could do more harm than good. He wasn’t entirely convinced; Harry knew his limits, and expected Draco to trust that he would communicate any discomfort he experienced. Not having always been as honest as he knew he should have been had created that problem, though. He was to blame for Draco’s lack of trust in that regard, and as much as he hated it, he couldn’t deny it, couldn’t rationalise his behaviour as anything other than stubbornness in the face of fear: something he’d always battled with. But Draco either could or would not see that, and despite everything he’d done, it planted a seed of doubt that seemed to incubate and grow even with his attempts to dig it from the depths of his soul, where a fracture had left him weak. His relatives’ uncharacteristic acceptance of their grandson when they wouldn’t, couldn’t accept _him_ hurt more than he wanted to admit. He shouldn’t have been surprised, he knew, given how they had always fawned over Dudley, even when he’d been a complete prat, but he was. He wondered if it was a way for Petunia to live vicariously through her grandson, since she’d been so jealous, envious, of his mother. That much had been obvious when Harry had seen Snape’s memories that night of the Battle. 

The bedroom door opened and Mrs Prout entered, he assumed to gather his dishes, but he hadn’t touched the meal. He didn’t look at her, afraid that she’d see everything he was trying to keep close, to hide away. The silverware clinked against the plate, and still he refused to look; he didn’t want pity. He didn’t even pity himself. He was angry, though, hurt that everything he’d known had become some cruel joke on Fate’s part. Everything was always just out of reach for him: Draco, happiness, stability. He was sure there was more, but those were the things that came to mind first. He’d thought that once he’d done his duty, his life would finally settle down. He’d been realistic enough to have known that life wouldn’t be perfect, but he would never even have contemplated that there’d be no more to it than what he’d been reduced to: a cripple who would end up dead, having been the reason for Draco’s sacrificing everything, going against his conscience, throwing away his profession at St Mungo’s, and ruining what little reputation he had. 

The door opened again, clicked closed, and he felt the bed shift, but didn’t move his gaze from the expanse of white above him. Draco’s arms wrapped around him, but he couldn’t look at him. His breathing hitched slightly, his eyelids finally shuttering closed, his only means to protect himself. Warm lips pressed against his cheek, as he felt his glasses slide from his face – a soft _click_ following them being placed on the bedside table – and fingers moved through his hair as Draco’s mouth moved to his, but he wasn’t in a mood it would help – even if he knew Draco was trying to be comforting, or at least distract him. He pulled away and turned onto his side with some effort, but he managed. Draco didn’t seem to take it personally that snogging wasn’t exactly at the top of his list of preferred activities at that moment, and silently curled round him, laying his arm across him, their forearms touching. 

Not once had Harry considered pushing Draco away before, but he was close to it then. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing anything. All that seemed to be before him were shadows. Being aware of Draco’s warmth and solidity behind him did nothing to quash the fear of being just a burden; he’d never had someone tell him there was nothing and no one more important than him. With the Dursleys’ treatment of him over the years, he couldn’t understand that he could genuinely be so important to someone else, especially when he had nothing to offer in return in his state – that was all he’d ever known, after all. His entire life seemed like it could be separated into moments when someone else needed him to do something, or him actively seeking to avoid those who wanted to help, because they still wanted _something_ from him. His mother had been the only person who had ever striven to protect him the way Draco did, and he couldn’t understand that. No one had ever sought him out and offered to be his defender when the battle against the things in his head had become too much for him. As a child, he’d needed total acceptance, an unquestioning, unrestricted sense of protection from those who were his family, but they’d given nothing of that. Instead, he’d been just a nuisance. 

“They called me a freak all my life,” he said abruptly. “Made me sleep in that bloody cupboard under the stairs, gave me Dudley’s old clothes, made me cook for them... and they knew all along, about my parents, about magic, and they never told me a damned thing until Hagrid showed up. And now, because Dudley has a son, who happens to be a wizard, magic’s okay and a witch is part of the family.”

The parchment he’d been holding, now damp from being clutched in his grasp for so long, fluttered to the floor. Draco kissed his neck reassuringly, then said, “I don’t know anything about your childhood.”

“What, didn’t you read the _Prophet_?” Harry asked sharply. 

“I don’t believe a word I read in that rag.”

Harry scoffed, his mouth moving before he could force himself to stop. “Dumbledore took me to my aunt and uncle after Voldemort killed my parents. Well, actually, Hagrid did, but Dumbledore left me with them. They’re Muggles.” Dumbledore had left him there on the justification of blood protection, and Harry had always wondered why, if Dumbledore had known that Voldemort hadn’t actually been dead, he hadn’t tried to locate and destroy the Horcruxes sooner. The knowledge of their existence obviously hadn’t been new, and even after seven years of thinking about it, Harry had never been able to understand why Dumbledore had chosen to wait so long to begin hunting and destroying them, or why he hadn’t involved others – more powerful, more skilled wizards; former Order members – in the search. Neither had he ever understood why, if all he needed was to spend one night under the Dursleys’ roof every year to maintain the blood protection, he had been so completely abandoned to them for so long, and allowed to pass his childhood in ignorance, misery and neglect. 

There were so many questions still unanswered from that time: why the Ministry hadn’t taken Harry into custody when his parents had been murdered; why he had been cut off from any knowledge of wizards and magic – what purpose had been served by his complete ignorance of it all; and why Dumbledore had waited until Voldemort had resurrected himself before trying to stop him. Why he had waited as Harry suffered, with Mrs Figg watching and reporting to him, but taking no action, when Harry had been supposed to be so bloody important to the wizarding world. It stung that he could be important as a symbol on an impersonal level to many without ever having been important for himself to anyone even more than it stung that, for all he had been supposed to be the one who would save them all, he hadn’t even warranted enough care to keep him properly fed, housed and clothed. 

But he was important for himself, he tried to tell himself. To Draco, Harry was everything, and the tingling in his arm that accompanied Draco’s touch was another solid reminder of what he had now, and despite that being the most important thing to him, the need to purge – if only to make it stop hurting – his past had become a crushing compulsion. “I never had any friends. Dudley - my cousin - beat up anyone who came near me. I had no one. And they liked it that way. On my eleventh birthday, Hagrid had to come and get me because they refused to let me read any of the letters from Hogwarts. Uncle Vernon took us to some island, thinking that would stop the owls – he hated that the neighbours could see so many of them around the house; there were so many of them – but Hagrid turned up, and he told me a bit. Enough that I knew what they’d kept from me all my life.” He paused. “And then I met you.” 

He took a breath to steady his nerves. “And I had to go back to them every summer, or whatever protection I had from Voldemort was gone. So I _had_ to stay there.” Memories he’d long since chosen to ignore surfaced in his thoughts, and he felt Draco’s hold tighten a bit. “In the first year, that night in the Forbidden Forest, that was Voldemort we saw drinking the unicorn blood… That’s how he had been staying alive. But he wanted the Philosopher’s Stone. Dumbledore had asked Hagrid to bring it to Hogwarts.” 

Draco’s fingers ran across Harry’s arm again.

“Ron and the twins had to break bars off my window so I could come back for the second year. My uncle had put loads of locks on the door. Since they were afraid of Dumbledore, they gave me Dudley’s spare room. It was better than the cupboard, but… They – Ron, Fred, and George – stole Mr Weasley’s car, the one Ron crashed into the Whomping Willow.” He sighed. “And Dobby—” Harry’s throat tightened, “—tried to warn me about the Chamber, about what your father had done, but—” He stopped, his thoughts changing direction again. “Snape tried to have me expelled that year. And then there was all that with the Basilisk and Voldemort’s diary.”

Harry stopped. He’d never willingly shared so much about his life with anyone, and it had him slightly off balance that he was still talking about things – the truth – about much of what had happened to him. Draco murmured something, but he couldn’t make it out, and shifted slightly against him. “The third year, I found out I had a godfather – Sirius Black. And I found out that Pettigrew was still alive and that _he_ ‘d been the one who had betrayed my parents, had taken Voldemort to them. And— I— As soon as I found him, he was gone, again.” Harry scoffed. “He thought I was my dad, though…. It’s like he didn’t see me. And every time the Dementors were around, all I could do was hear my mum screaming the night they were killed…” Harry trailed off, unable to finish that thought. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco said softly, tentatively. Harry was only vaguely aware of it, though.

“Triwizard year, Barty Crouch put my name in the Goblet. Then I had to watch Voldemort have Cedric killed, and I couldn’t do anything,” he said, his voice growing hollow. “I still have the scar from that night, too – from when Wormtail took my blood so Voldemort could live again.” He looked at his arm. “I used to have nightmares about it. Dudley thought it was funny. That summer before the fifth year, Umbridge sent Dementors after me, and Dudley was there, and they tried to suck out his soul, so I used my Patronus to get rid of them. But he was poorly, and when I got him home, my aunt and uncle blamed me.” Draco nuzzled the back of Harry’s head gently as he was talking. “I spent the sixth year waiting for Dumbledore to tell me what the hell was going on. He never told me anything until after…” Harry felt Draco’s forehead against him, the slight tension in his body, and whispered, “Sometimes I wish he’d picked Neville.” He felt horrible for having said it, but he’d thought it enough in the years following the war. 

Pale fingers stroked his fringe back. “There was this prophecy… That’s why your dad went to Azkaban then. He was supposed to get it for Voldemort, but he couldn’t. Only me or Voldemort could take it, since it was about us.” His breath hitched for a moment. “That’s the night Sirius died, or whatever happened when he went through the Veil. And I found out that it could have been me or Neville – that I’d have to kill him, or be killed. We couldn’t both survive… And Voldemort had chosen me.”

He felt another kiss to the back of his head. Thinking about the people who had despised and rejected him gave rise to wonder how Draco could be with him. Of those people, Draco was someone who had every right to hate and reject him for the things he’d done in their past, just as much as Harry would have had more than ample grounds to reject and despise Draco, if he hadn’t had the past few months as a new measure to judge him against. And with the memories of that time in their lives came the need to make Draco understand, accept, and acknowledge that _Sectumsempra_ hadn’t been intentional, and that he needed Draco to forgive him for it. “In the sixth year, I really didn’t know what that spell did. I-I’m sorry.” He paused to take a breath, and having lost the filter between his thoughts and speech again, said, “I like having marked you, though. Feels like I’ve marked you as mine.” He was part of Draco; had etched himself physically into Draco’s flesh just as ineradicably as he wanted to etch himself into Draco’s heart and mind.

The tightening of Draco’s embrace made Harry feel secure, and the brush of lips against the shell of his ear felt like absolution.

Harry exhaled softly, then added, “You… being with you has made me learn… things about myself that I’ve never thought about.”

Draco kissed the back of his head again. Silent assurance he was still there, never pushing for more than Harry was willing to tell.

“I told Dudley I wanted to talk to him.”

Draco stilled, waiting. 

“He’s in the wizarding world now... has been for a few years, I’ve just been able to avoid him since he and Millicent got married. But... I don’t want to be like them. I don’t care for seeing Petunia and Vernon again, but…” Harry sighed. “He’s still family.”

A very gentle sigh came from behind him. 

“I don’t want his son to be alone.”

“He’s being raised by a witch from a large, traditional family,” Draco said softly. “He won’t be alone.”

“I suppose I want to see if he’s changed…” Harry sighed, feeling Draco’s hand stroking his arm again, calming him slightly, then a thought, prompted by all of the talk of family, occurred to him. “Has your mum talked to Andromeda?”

“Since the party? Yes, she has. Aunt Andromeda has been concerned about you.”

“How’s Teddy?”

“Fine. He wants to visit. He’s been wearing that scar ever since he last saw you.” Harry couldn’t suppress the amused laughter that shook his body, then Draco started to say something else, hesitating slightly. “He’s worn the Dark Mark twice, since then. To show her that he was sulking.”

“Fuck,” Harry said tightly. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. He’s a child.”

Draco huffed.

“He likes you,” Harry stated firmly. “That’s why he does it. He doesn’t know about any of that. We – me and Andromeda – talked about how we’d explain it a few years ago. But I don’t think he’s old enough…” Harry trailed off, thinking about Teddy, and how he and Andromeda would explain his parents’ deaths. At least he wasn’t alone, though. Teddy had Harry and Andromeda, and apparently now Narcissa and Draco.

“The only way to remove it is by burning,” Draco said bitterly, apparently just as consumed by his thoughts as Harry had been. 

It was obvious from the tone and bearing as much as from the words themselves that Draco had at least considered removing the Mark before that moment, and Harry wondered why he hadn’t, if it bothered him so much – or whether it only bothered him now that Teddy had started mimicking it, and Harry was in his life. 

“It doesn’t bother me,” Harry said reassuringly. “It’s not who you are.” Draco breathed slowly behind him, and Harry said, “Just like this—” he lifted his hand to his forehead to trace the mark on his forehead, “—isn’t who I am.”

Draco huffed again.

There was a long silence between them, and Harry, wanting to understand more about how Draco viewed the Mark on his arm, based on his reaction to Teddy’s having mimicked it on his own skin, asked, “The Mark – if it can be burned off... would you want it to be?”

Hesitation followed Harry’s question, then Draco said, “I… I don’t— It’s a constant reminder of what could have happened. What did happen. I don’t know. I’ll be judged for it whether I have it or not. But to look at it every day and loathe everything it means—” He stopped sharply. “I don’t know whether I still need to be reminded. I don’t know whether I can trust myself not to let it happen again. While it’s still in the world, what it meant will be remembered. I’ll be a walking reminder of the sheer, awful stupidity. Someone will always hate me for it. So someone will always be vigilant.” He shifted uncomfortably, clenching and unclenching the fingers of that hand. “But I hate it.”

“Why haven’t you got rid of it, then?” Harry asked, taking Draco’s arm, and inspecting the Mark. All he felt from seeing it was a sense of relief that those times were over, but he disliked how it affected Draco. He’d never been afraid of Voldemort, but he knew Draco had; it was in the way he was shifting, the unease with which he spoke of it. 

“I can’t. I can’t do it myself, and nobody at St Mungo’s was willing to do it. The fire that will burn it away is magical. It has to be summoned from the heart, but it treads the line of Dark magic. The only thing that will eradicate it is the will to destroy it absolutely. My mother won’t even discuss it, and my father didn’t hate it enough. Nobody else who might have been capable of it was even willing to try.”

“I will,” Harry said. He drew Draco’s arm up, then kissed it, his lips lingering on the black snake and skull, his breath moving back into his face, adding, “If you want me to.”

Draco’s body slackened and his breath sounded caught in his throat. 

“You don’t belong to him any more,” Harry said, kissing it again. 

Draco’s fingers twitched, each memory of the same thing flitting quickly across Harry’s thoughts like a caress, telling him exactly what that movement meant, his own fingers twitching against Draco’s arm. “I never belonged to him.” 

Curious, Harry ran his fingers along the outline, feeling the slightly raised texture beneath his fingertips. Draco shivered as Harry’s fingers caressed his skin. And he kissed the Mark again, hearing Draco’s breath hitch once more. 

Fascinated by Draco’s response to what he was doing, Harry closed his eyes and ran his tongue across the tight skin, feeling the raised lines of the Mark, then continued, urged by the shuddering exhalation from behind him, to the inside of Draco’s wrist, biting the sensitive skin, dragging his lips until he reached Draco’s palm, placing a kiss in the centre of it. The significance of Draco allowing him to do something so intimate to a vulnerable part of Draco’s body wasn’t lost on him, setting his teeth to the thin, easily torn flesh of his wrist, where veins clustered close to the surface – especially since he had been taught that his pure blood was the most important thing in the world. 

He admired that wonderfully pale skin, then bit Draco’s wrist again, the rise of blood to the surface leaving a soft-pink mark. He inhaled deeply as his arm began to tire, but he didn’t want to break the spell surrounding them, and as though he needed to give Draco the legend to the map of his body, to show, without having to say exactly what he wanted or needed, he closed his eyes, and moved Draco’s hand to his head, pushing their fingers through his hair, feeling the tingle that started at the point of contact and ran down his spine. Skin erupted with the sensation. He shivered slightly when their hands moved across his forehead, then to his lips, the soft flesh parting as he nipped gently at the calloused pads of Draco’s fingertips. Offering kisses to each one, his lips tingled with pleasure. He spread their fingers slightly so that their thumbs moved against his cheek, and it was perfect.

He bypassed his neck, leading their hands down his chest, moaning softly as he felt Draco’s erection. He was growing aroused, too, but for him, it wasn’t about sex – it was about knowing he could let Draco touch him in such a way, without having fear that he’d be judged or be hurt. It was almost as though he was leading Draco inside him, allowing him to touch his soul, calming it, giving him peace, his skin answering their collective touch. Since he was still clothed, he urged Draco to help undo the buttons of his shirt so that the exploration could continue. Bit by bit, his shirt was opened, and his chest exposed, one side of the fabric dropping to the bed, the other remaining draped across his chest.

Still learning how he liked to be touched by Draco, Harry slid his hand across his collarbones, the centre of his chest, then to his nipples. Gasping at the sensation, he swallowed hard as he continued lower, until they reached his hip. He gripped with as much strength as he was able, letting Draco know he really liked being touched there, then led him to his belt, and the button of his trousers. He caressed the back of Draco’s hand as the tongue was pulled loose, the zip lowered. His breathing had slowly quickened, his body tingling with each touch. His cock was hard, his entire body awash with the pleasure of being so free with Draco.

“Will you show me your body?” Harry heard himself ask, almost in a daze. “I want… to touch you – feel you – the same way. Show me how to touch you. Please.” 

Silently, Draco rose from bed and undressed, then after helping Harry remove his clothes, lay face to face with him, and guided Harry in the same way Harry had guided Draco. He avoided his face, neck, and the disfigured nipple completely, but lingered on the other; it was soft to the touch. Blood gathered and filled the slightly-darker skin at Harry’s questioning fingers. He swept his thumb across the pale skin, feeling the tensing and relaxing of Draco’s muscles as his hand was moved, the path continuing to his flank, between ribcage and hip-bone. There was a delicious dip curving outward that Harry wished he could run his tongue across, settling instead for curling his thumb down and relishing in the answering twitch of skin and muscle as his blunted fingernail traced the edge.

Harry watched each movement, his hand trembling from the effort it had taken to guide Draco’s hand across his body. Then Draco took his wrist, running Harry’s hand across his abdomen, each ridge and valley his to explore with only the barest of touches before moving across hip, then around to his arse. Draco, Harry noted, was quite fit, his lean body perfect, and buttocks tight, a rounded curve that met with sinuous thighs. 

Harry craved the day when he would be able to touch that skin and body without needing help, his mind already conjuring wicked ways to bend Draco to the madness of pleasure, wanting to see that long spine arch.

Draco released his hand, leaving it where it was, and Harry looked up, meeting that slow blink, and leaned forward, kissing him. Their lips moved against one another in a heated press, mouths opening, tongues darting against each other, wrestling, then coming to an understanding as they slid together slowly. Harry inhaled deeply, taking Draco into him, letting him move through him as though he was Harry’s breath. He tried to get closer to Draco, to feel their cocks together, but he had worn himself out from pushing his limits. 

Noticing, Draco was happy to oblige, taking Harry’s hand and holding it around their cocks in the same way he had the night Harry had made him bleed. A bit more conscious of what he was doing this time, he was careful to avoid biting Draco’s chest, but he did lick the other nipple, loving the feel of the blood-rushed skin against his mouth. He stopped trying to control his reactions, and closed his eyes, moaning heavily as he approached orgasm. He ground his teeth together as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he latched onto Draco’s collarbone, sucking the skin into his mouth, his vocalisations growing louder.

The pressure and speed changed, and unable to hold back, his mind went black, and he came, his whole body shuddering with pleasure as he felt the heat of their come against his hand.

For a long moment, the silence of the bedroom was filled with their shared panting, breaths mingling together, warm against Harry’s face. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips against Draco’s, parting his lips, swiping his tongue against the one that met his. Getting tired of kissing Draco would be like surrendering life as he knew it – it was as much a necessity as breathing. There was always such a gentle force behind each movement, the underlying sense of possession – and need, Harry hoped, because that was what he felt – evident with each curl and twist of saliva-slicked muscles moving in time. Breath, having been ripped from his lungs, made Harry break from the kiss; one day, he realised, he would either have to learn how to deal with the way his body reacted when Draco kissed him, or suffer never feeling those soft, pale lips against his.

If his hand hadn’t been slick with semen, he’d have traced the angled contours of Draco’s face, learned the slopes and dips so that they were forever imprinted in his memory – just seeing it wasn’t enough. He’d softened over the years, and Harry had to admit he liked that Draco’s face no longer appeared razor-sharp or spoilt as it had at Hogwarts; he had become a man, and a very handsome one, at that. Still all aristocrat, he carried himself well, shoulders firm and back straight when faced with anything outside of their little sanctuary. But inside that room, when he was intent on giving and receiving pleasure, he became another person, the freedom of expression coming with each touch and swipe of tongue.

The hold on his hand finally slackened. He was taken for a bath, and returned to bed, another set of fresh bedding cradling his naked body. Unaccustomed to anyone apart from Kreacher knowing his sexual habits, he flushed again. Mrs Prout truly was a treasure of a woman, as Narcissa had said; she unselfishly catered to Harry’s needs, a smile on her face, and ‘disapproval’ seemingly a word in a foreign language. Her loyalty was laudable, and Harry was thankful that Draco had sought her services when he had, even if at the time he had been quite against it, his stubborn pride and recklessness having made him believe that the whole ordeal would have been over in a matter of weeks. Now, he couldn’t imagine being without Mrs Prout around. He had been quite truthful with Narcissa when he had said they felt like a proper family, as strange and foreign a concept as it was to him. And it _was_ strange and foreign: he had seen and experienced something very much like it among the Weasleys, but he had always been acutely aware, in the back corners of his mind, that he was an outsider; accepted, but not actually a natural part of it. The family he had with Narcissa, Draco, and Mrs Prout was different. It had evolved around him; he hadn’t merely been absorbed into it. Molly Weasley had accepted him unhesitatingly and unreservedly, but also unthinkingly and without any real variation to her ordinary routine: he had simply been subsumed into her brood. Narcissa Malfoy and Eleanor Prout, though, had looked at him – at his weakest and worst – and made a choice, and put themselves out to accommodate it. Aware that he was accepted on his own merits, even with nothing to offer, by the people who surrounded him day and night, he felt a blanket of warmth, not just from Draco’s arms and body, fold around him. 

“You should eat,” Draco said, halting Harry’s train of thought.

“’M not hungry,” he replied sleepily. 

“Potter—” Draco warned, but Harry cut him off.

“’M fine, Draco. Just want to sleep.” Eyelids, heavy from exhaustion and satiation, closed, and his breathing evened to a slow pace, his thoughts becoming hazy as he drifted off.

_“Harry!” Teddy called, his face alight with mischief._

_A smile split Harry’s lips immediately as the boy rushed toward him, his eyes gleaming mirror-like and his hair an inky blot atop his head. There was a bright flash of sickly-green light in the sky, the Dark Mark slithering against the night-time darkness, stars glittering behind the skull’s eyes, sending a tremble of fear, for his godson, through Harry._

_Teddy stopped, a grin that Harry had never seen spreading across his face. The lightning bolt that stood out behind his fringe warped, his face becoming bone-pale, like the ugly pallor of the masks the Death Eaters wore. His surroundings, which had been indistinct, became clear, and he felt a rush of panic as the headstones and statues seemed to fade from nothing to completely solid in the time it took for Harry to inhale._

_Sickening laughter echoed around Harry, and, realising he was confined to his wheelchair, he turned, seeing Draco, his robes opened at the throat, his chest heaving._

_“Draco—?” He stopped, realising he was seeing the boy who had disarmed Dumbledore, not his lover, his face sharp and eyes sunken in. “Run!” Harry shouted. Why Draco was standing still, staring blankly at him, he didn’t know. “Draco, run!”_

_There was no recognition in his grey eyes, at least none that Harry could see, and then the cold laughter began again. He never took his eyes from the blank gaze as he felt for his wand, determined to help Draco. But he couldn’t feel it anywhere, and finally panicking, he looked around, then saw what he had been looking for. In Draco’s limp fingers, Harry’s wand lay, ready to fall at any moment._

_Footsteps, light, sounded from beside him, and he looked up to see Teddy, the Dark Mark stark against his forearm. “Teddy—” Harry said, but was interrupted by a scream of pain._

_“You’ll die so our Lord can live again,” came a familiar voice. “He needs back what he gave you.”_

_Swallowing hard, Harry turned to Draco and saw Wormtail, his wand pointed at Draco’s chest, slicing open the scars Harry had left behind. Needing to help him, Harry tried to move, but Teddy, with preternatural strength – or magic – held him back, and all he could do was watch as blood streamed down Draco’s chest, unable to interfere or stop it. The Mark on Draco’s arm appeared to writhe and strain against the skin. Harry tried to call out, but no voice came, and flashes of light illuminated his surroundings as Voldemort’s red eyes stared back at him. His entire body began to shake as he watched Draco’s body drop to the ground._

Harry’s eyes jerked open, and in his sleepy haze, all he saw was the red of Draco’s blood spilling down his chest again, a shudder running through his body, a startled gasp shattering the silence. The arms around him pulled away as Draco recoiled, and he reached out and took hold of him. “No,” he said, his stomach roiling. 

The comforting embrace returned, and he placed his forehead against Draco’s chest, trying to catch his breath. “When I’m well… I’m getting rid of that Mark,” he finally managed, the words nearly making him sick. 

“All right.” Draco kissed the top of his head, and, knowing that he was safe, that he wasn’t in that graveyard again, Harry swallowed hard, inhaling deeply, grabbing for any sort of equilibrium. 

“Voldemort had you. When you were sixteen. He made your Mark a Horcrux. I was me, like I am now, though, so I couldn’t do anything. You didn’t know who I was. And Wormtail was cutting your scars open...” He trailed off, breathing heavily as another kiss was pressed to his head. 

“The Dark Mark is incapable of housing a splintered soul. The wearer’s soul would force it out.” 

“Doesn’t matter. I want it off you.”

“Then it’ll go. I promise you. Even if you can’t do it, it’ll go.” 

Uncertain if he could express his appreciation, he said, “Thank you,” kissing Draco’s chest.

Draco sighed slightly. “Tomorrow, I’ll teach you to meditate.” 

“What? Why?”

“Because you have bad dreams and night terrors too often. If we can calm your mind before you sleep, they should ease.” 

“I’ve always had them.”

Draco’s arms tightened. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“I told you Dudley used to make fun of me for it.”

“You told me he made fun of you for having nightmares about witnessing a murder. You didn’t say he made fun of you for always having had nightmares,” Draco said. “But it doesn’t matter how long you’ve had them or what they were about. You shouldn’t have them. You don’t have to. I can help you with that.”

Unused to accepting people’s help, Harry swallowed, nodding his acquiescence slowly. 

Draco rubbed his cheek against Harry’s hair. “And if the meditation doesn’t work, when you’re well again, there are other things I can do. Magical ways of dealing with them.” 

“I wasn’t very good at Occlumency,” Harry replied absently, not sure what Draco was driving at. 

“You don’t need to be. I am,” Draco said. “There are spells Healers use; they’re based on the principles of Legilimency, without actually _being_ Legilimency. I can tie your dreams to the more conscious levels of my mind. When you start having a nightmare, you’ll be able to call me from inside it.” 

Stunned that Draco was willing to open his mind to Harry in such a way, he replied without hesitation, “All right.”

“I can open a way for you out of your dreams and into mine.” 

“Luna said your dreams aren’t interesting,” Harry blurted, laughing slightly, the backwash of adrenalin drawing his thoughts to Luna’s earlier visit. When Draco remained silent, he asked, “What do you dream about?”

Draco shrugged slightly. “Lakes, usually. Sometimes it’s clouds, or trees. Usually lakes, though.” 

“Lakes? What are you doing? Just watching them? Or are you the lake?”

Laughing, Draco replied, “I’m not really there at all.” 

“That’s... different. Never heard of that.”

“It’s relaxing. Calming. I cultivated it quite carefully.” He paused for a moment. “It’s the serenity of deep meditation in dream form, that’s all.”

Unsure how to reply to that, Harry leaned forward, kissing Draco lightly. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

His mouth still next to Draco’s, Harry could feel the smile tug at those too-soft lips. “I’m not. You don’t have to deal with your nightmares alone any more, Harry.” 

Breath hitched in Harry’s chest, the usual shock of Draco saying his name running through him. It was then he realised he’d made a demand without regard for how Draco felt about it, and, conscious to avoid upsetting the sometimes-delicate balance between them, he said, “I know I just... demanded you not keep the Mark, but... do you want to? I mean, how do you feel about that, keeping it or not?” Harry was tense as he waited for Draco’s answer; he knew he should really have no say in whether Draco kept the Mark, and it hadn’t bothered him before, but his nightmare had awoken the need to protect Draco from any harm that he thought could come from it remaining.

“I don’t want it. And I made you a promise. One way or another, it goes.” 

“I... thanks.” Harry rested his cheek against Draco’s, then his head turned slightly, the soft press of lips meeting his temple. “I’ll try harder,” he said softly to himself, a promise. _Try harder to be a better lover, a better partner. Not to take us for granted._ It was more than that, of course, but his day had been trying, and saying any more than that would have been impossible. 

Draco leaned forward and kissed Harry again, the soft sound of stretching fabric accompanying him settling against the pillows. A sigh so faint that the words were barely distinguishable came, and Harry thought he heard, “You are everything.”

Heart pounding heavily, he whispered, “You are, too.” Closing his eyes, he drifted off to sleep, carried by another soft sigh from Draco and the rain hitting the windows.

**~*~*~*~**

“What do you know about the spell that can get rid of the Mark?” Harry asked, his attention shifting from the garden to Luna. Her eyes widened in response to his question.

“He told you about that?”

“He— We were talking... Teddy has been wearing it when he’s pissed off about something, and Draco... doesn’t want it, but he said no one at St Mungo’s would remove it, that his mum wouldn’t do anything with it... But I want to. I told him I would. I think he was surprised when I kissed it...”

Luna’s expression, usually faraway, suddenly became intently focussed as she stared at Harry. “You _kissed_ it?” she asked. “He’d barely even let me touch it.”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “I’m not afraid of it. It’s not who he is… it might have been… but it’s not now.”

As suddenly as the lucidity had overcome Luna’s features, they shifted back to the usual dreaminess, and she stared at Harry’s bare toes as she began to hum softly. 

Harry huffed slightly, trying to decide what to do. He needed more information, and Luna was the only person, apart from Narcissa, who had any real insight into Draco. “Help me. Please,” he said. She didn’t appear fazed by his sudden utterance, her head moving from side to side as she continued to look at his toes, appearing completely fascinated by them. “I want to understand him. Why he’s so afraid he’ll hurt me. And be able to tell him why I want what I want.” 

Luna had begun singing a little song to herself halfway through Harry’s statement, and he sighed, frustrated. “Saying it in words helps, unless you’re good at telepathy. I’m not. But he’s an Occlumens. That makes you psychically deaf, you know. So that wouldn’t help anyway.”

“I mean, in a way he’ll understand. He’s… not like me. I know I have to… be very specific with questions, but—” 

“Has he put his fingers in you yet?” she interrupted. “He won’t put anything else in you until he’s done that.”

Harry flushed brilliantly. He hadn’t intended sex specifically as the aim of the statement. “Yes.”

Luna frowned at his toes as if they were misbehaving, then made a high-pitched trill. “He hurt someone, once. It made him very nervous,” she said.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” Harry stated firmly, watching as Luna tilted her head back until her nose was pointing at the ceiling, her eyes crossing.

“And he actually _loves_ you,” Luna added, interrupting Harry’s thoughts, seemingly having missed what Harry had said.

He looked out the bedroom window again. “He doesn’t… like that. When I say I love him. He flinches,” Harry said, remembering that morning when Draco had handed him his toothbrush. It had been the second time he’d said it and met with the same reaction. Expressing how he felt for Draco in words was important to Harry – and even if Draco didn’t use the same words to define what he felt, Harry was quite certain his many phrases of reassurance, such as “You are everything”, “Each other’s”, and the plain statement that Harry had all of him, all meant the same thing. Harry’s inability to connect the concept sooner was irritating. Dark hair shook lightly as the Hogwarts Express of realisation slammed into him, and left him with a bitter taste of stupidity sitting heavily on his tongue. It has been so obvious before, but Harry had been so caught up in his own anxiety and need that he had failed to see everything - _the everything_ that Draco was, and that he really did love Harry. If there was any doubt in Harry’s mind, it was only of his making, and nothing Draco had done, because even in the midst of all of Harry’s unusual, completely uncharacteristic insecurity, Draco had been patient, listening when he’d needed it, not judging him. The desire to growl in frustration was heavy in Harry’s chest, but he clamped down on it; he could save chastising himself for taking _his everything_ for granted.

Apparently back from Jupiter, Luna looked Harry in the eyes. “That’s because he doesn’t know it’s love. He doesn’t believe in love, you see.” She wagged her finger at Harry’s toes, clicking her tongue. “He doesn’t understand it, does he? So it confuses him when you talk about it. He just knows you’re the world to him.”

 _And he means the world to me._ Sighing, Harry said, “You know… when I died the first time… at Hogwarts, I didn’t really know what I had to live for – dying meant I saved everyone – but… with him, I do. And I don’t want to die.” 

Tilting her head to the side, Luna’s gaze shifted to just over his left shoulder, her voice oddly child-like as she said, “You said the Killing Curse didn’t work. Was that a lie?”

Harry, completely confused, turned and looked over his shoulder, seeing nothing. He shook his head and looked at Luna. “Who are you talking to?”

Luna just shrugged, and went back to singing her little song, and Harry turned back to the looking at the garden. Time crawled by, and eventually Luna had to leave. Harry said goodnight, and had his dinner, recalling the events of the day.

That morning had started out fine. Draco had remained with Harry for breakfast, helping him sign his name to the letters to Mrs Prout’s children after he’d gone through some basic breathing and relaxation techniques for meditation. The photo Harry had asked Mrs Prout to have framed had been placed on his bedside table while he’d been in the bath, and he’d smiled at seeing it again, though there had never been any reaction to it from Draco. That the photo had still been sitting there after Harry’s nap between lunch and breakfast had told Harry Draco approved of it, even if he’d never said a word. He’d spent the majority of late morning and afternoon watching films and talking with Luna, and now that she was gone, he was back to thinking. 

To Harry’s immense appreciation, Luna had agreed to get him more information about how to remove the Mark from Draco, but not without fair warning that removing it would hurt Draco, and leave scarring. Harry had wrestled with that for a few moments, but he was willing to do anything it took so that they were rid of that stain on both of their pasts: there was no reason for Draco to suffer it still, when he clearly didn’t want it. Yes, he had made a promise to Harry, but he hadn’t felt any deception in Draco’s admission that he hated it.

Needing some fresh air, after he had finished his dinner and declined Mrs Prout’s company for a film, he opened the doors to the garden and made his way along the path until he reached the lower end, his mind in a daze. 

He exhaled heavily, then inhaled, the scent of the various plants an inundation of pleasant fragrances that calmed his unsteady nerves. Now that he knew more about Draco’s past, the truth he’d either refused to see or actively dismissed became clear. It was all of the little – and big – things that added up to the truth of Draco’s feelings. They were, Harry realised, tantamount to a blazing sign, with an arrow pointing to “I love you, you stupid git”. And Harry knew, without a shadow of doubt, that that was the case. His conversation with Luna felt like it had left him in the middle of the tracks of platform nine and three-quarters, just waiting for that bloody red engine to elucidate everything that had been there all along, but he’d been too caught up in his own woes to see. 

They were each other’s, and Draco meant just as much to Harry as Harry meant to Draco – everything. 

Harry had a lot to learn about relationships: what he’d known with Ginny wasn’t going to apply at all in the same way with Draco, and he couldn’t let the insecurity that the dissolution of his relationship with Ginny had caused continue affecting what he had with Draco. He knew that he would eventually lose Draco if he kept on the way he was: it wouldn’t even take him pushing for more all the time; all that it would take would be to continue ignoring Draco’s wordless declarations because they weren’t what he was used to. Each one of his sacrifices, whether big or small, had been for Harry, for his wellbeing, for his happiness in the sort of circumstances that had made him into a man he could almost despise himself for having been. 

Being able to share his insecurity was one thing, but dwelling on it, and letting it consume him, when Draco was still there, still returned to bed with him every night, even through his brooding and distress, were all proof of Draco’s dedication and love. And, even though he’d tried not to push, he’d still been doing it in some ways; that, he knew, was part of who he was, but he didn’t want it to become a factor which adversely affected his relationship with Draco. The inconsideration, while not inherently malicious, must have been hurtful to Draco.

Shaking his head, he realised – stupidly – that his insecurity had driven him not to contemplate the circumstances for Draco’s always-inevitable rejection of full sex properly, or stop to wonder just _why_ Draco was so adamant. Hurting a past lover was a perfectly good reason to say no, particularly since Harry wasn’t robust, as Draco had said on more than one occasion and Harry couldn’t honestly deny. A morass of emotion lay before him, and he tried to wade through it, cursing himself for not having asked if there were any other reasons sooner. Knowing that Draco wasn’t like him and accepting it without trying to complicate matters was an entirely different thing, and Harry knew – not for the first time – that he was lucky Draco still considered himself Harry’s. If Luna could see that Draco loved him, why had he been stubbornly been refusing to see it? Maybe it was the lack of familiar definitions and labels that had left him questioning the commitment and motivation behind Draco’s actions every day, but he couldn’t use that as an excuse either. 

Sighing, he ran his fingers through is hair and admitted to himself that he’d been lying to Draco unintentionally, because while he did trust Draco completely not to harm him physically, he was still afraid that he’d be hurt emotionally, that everything he’d invested in genuine care, attraction, and love for Draco would be cast aside as easily by Draco as it had been by Ginny. _No wonder he keeps hiding._ Harry chastised himself.

He’d been foolish, and finally recognising it, he felt guilty: he’d hurt Draco with his constant need for validation, some of which he could explain as being related to his condition, but for the rest of which he had no excuse. And he knew that. Draco had given up everything, had re-ordered his entire world around Harry, and his inability to recognise it, and believe Draco when he’d given his silent and even verbal assurances was enough to make Harry ashamed. 

He had meant it when he’d told Draco he’d try harder, and maybe he had even realised it then, just hadn’t acknowledged to himself how his insecurity had been hurting Draco, too.

Looking up at the boundary preventing magic from affecting him – _physical evidence_ of Draco’s care, and a reminder of his disability – Harry felt the damp air ghosting across his skin, and wanting to feel the dew-kissed grass on his feet, moved his legs with some effort until his bare soles were cushioned by the earth, a sense of peace and normality that he hadn’t felt for a while moving through him. A whimsical desire to lie with Draco in the damp grass overcame him, but he pushed it aside. The light from the windows above him cast a gentle glow across him, and a smile quirked at his lips. He knew he couldn’t keep taking what he had for granted, not if he wanted to keep it, and losing Draco was not an option as far as he was concerned. 

Eyelids heavy, Harry closed them – _Just for a moment_ , he told himself – and slowly slid into sleep as his chin dropped to his chest, the comfort of _home_ surrounding him, the soothing scent of summer flowers lulling him into a contented sleep.

“Potter!”

Harry snapped awake, feeling Draco’s firm grip on his arm. His eyelids shuttered rapidly as he orientated himself to his surroundings.

“You bloody idiot,” Draco said, his tone scathing. “The last thing you need is a chill settling into your joints.”

“’M sorry,” Harry managed once his heartbeat returned to normal. “I know you’re hiding because of me, and I didn’t want to make things worse. I just came out here for some air. Was tired and just fell asleep.”

Draco muttered what was probably a withering rejoinder under his breath, but Harry didn’t ask him to repeat it; instead, he turned on the power to his chair and made his way back to the Manor, his Healer-lover stalking along at his elbow.

“Are you ready for your bath?” Draco asked tersely once he was back in the bedroom.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, pulling off his shirt. He was still slightly dazed from having been jarred awake so suddenly, and remained silent as Draco helped him out of the rest of his clothes and carried him to the bath. 

He rested his head against the tub, sighing softly as the warmth of the water spread over him. Turning to look at Draco, Harry realised he had a choice to make: he could either wait, delaying the inevitable continuation of Draco’s sullen brooding, or he could get it out of the way, dealing with the consequences as they came. Draco was already pissed off, but Harry knew that he wouldn’t leave while Harry was in the bath, so it made questioning, however manipulative and self-serving it was, a viable option. 

He looked at Draco, ignoring the flannel moving across his chest, and finally said tentatively, “Luna told me that you… hurt a lover once.” His need to know wasn’t about pushing, or asking for anything, but his need to understand where Draco stood on the matter, apart from ‘I don’t want to hurt you’, because like ‘each other’s’, the statement told him nothing at the same time as it told him everything.

The shutters slammed into place, the inscrutable mask marking the distance between them. “That woman has no business in civilised society.”

“Will you tell me what happened?” Harry asked, not demanding.

Visibly, Draco tensed, his hand stopping. “I... it... that was a long time ago.”

Unaccustomed to such strong reactions from Draco, Harry realised Draco must have been dwelling on whatever had happened since Harry had asked him to fuck him. It was the most reaction he’d got from him that didn’t include something near-fatal happening to him, and, knowing that he’d need to be very careful how he trod, he refused to push in the same manner he had before. From what Harry had seen so far, anything that dealt with emotions and Draco _had_ to be pushed for in some way, because Draco tended to retreat into himself – the sulking on more than one occasion, running away after he’d been given his Christmas present from Harry, were all proof that he just couldn’t handle emotions in the same way – if given half a chance. Harry’s desire for information was out of love, not about his previous drive for sex, and he hoped that if he could be gentle, without demanding answers, saying ‘please’ to get what he wanted, that Draco would allow the walls to drop, if only for a moment, to give Harry a little more insight into who Draco was now, not the person he had been. “What happened?” Harry coaxed softly.

Draco’s jaw set, and Harry was almost glad that he couldn’t see the look in his eyes properly. After a moment that felt like an eternity, Draco spoke abruptly, his voice cold and hard, and his words clipped in the way that told Harry there was deep distress behind the protective harshness. “I didn’t know what I was doing. We’d both had... more to drink than we should have. I—” A hard shudder ran through Draco’s body, and Harry reached out to take his hand. “Too soon. Too hard. We were only nineteen. He was too drunk. He didn’t realise—” Draco choked, sounding as though he might be sick.

“It’s alright, Draco. It’s alright,” Harry said, running his thumb along Draco’s tense hand. He wished he could change that, could ease the obvious discomfort Draco was feeling. It hadn’t been fair for him to bring it up, but he felt like his reasoning for asking was completely valid.

“It is categorically _not_ alright, Potter.”

“It’s in the past; you can’t do anything about it, now,” Harry said softly. The painful sound of enamel grinding made Harry feel guilty, but to make what they had work, he needed to know certain things. Whatever had happened, beyond what Draco was telling him - and he knew that there had to be more to it than Draco had said - had obviously damaged him in some way, and Harry wanted to fix it, wanted to reassure his lover. Harry knew that, despite Draco’s assurances that he was happy with the way things were, that wasn’t and couldn’t always be the case. Sex wasn’t just about Harry, it was about both of them, and his physical limitations were affecting something that he knew Draco to take great pleasure in, based on the crude ‘You like a cock up your arse as much as you like yours up one’, Benedict had spat, making certain Harry had heard, when he’d arrived at the Manor. It was the only thing Harry could honestly give of himself unrestrictedly, and he felt like Draco was taking his choice in the matter away from him by flatly refusing even to make the attempt. “Is that why you’re so afraid you’ll hurt me?”

Draco nodded tightly.

“I can’t fix that... Draco. I wish I could.” Harry sighed. “All I can do is promise you that no matter what, I’ll always be honest with my limits and trust your judgement.” He sighed again. “I know you enjoy sex, too, and I hate that the way I am is depriving you of something you enjoy doing. You aren’t nineteen any more, and we’ve both crossed a lot of water since then.” Harry stopped, something else that had never occurred to him hitting him. “You don’t go through this every time you want to have sex with a new lover, do you?”

Draco blinked, then shook his head, and Harry realised that, as Luna had said, he was going through it this time because of the extent to which he cared about Harry, and having finally seen the bigger picture, not just what his limited scope of reasoning had made him focus on, everything he felt for Draco, everything Draco felt for him, finally fitted into a schema he could understand. 

“None of them has ever been in your condition.”

“Maybe not, but refusing to try is a bit paranoid. You probably know my body better than I do right now.” Harry was still running his thumb across Draco’s hand, the tension still thick.

“You have no idea how badly I could hurt you.” 

“I know perfectly well how badly you can hurt me, but I trust you not to,” Harry said, looking at Draco. It was the truth, every word of it. “I also know perfectly well how good you can make me feel.” _That_ was an understatement, really; Draco had opened his mind and body to sensations he’d never felt, and it was the most precious thing he could have ever been given by another person. “I know I haven’t always been honest about my limits... But if I promise to tell you if it hurts... and not complain if you think it’s too much, would you try? I don’t want to say please. I don’t want to hurt you that way again.” Harry wasn’t pleading, and he wasn’t pushing.

Draco’s jaw set and his eyelids lowered, silence following. Harry waited. If Draco said no, he would, without a word against him, accept his answer, and hope that he hadn’t caused irreparable damage. “You’ll tell me the _moment_ it becomes too painful, or too much?” 

Shocked, Harry said earnestly, “I promise.”

“And you’ll abide by my judgement if _I_ think it’s too much for you? Without objecting?” 

“Yes.”

“You won’t tell me it’s not fair and complain that I’m not trusting you?” 

“No.” Harry thought for a moment, needing to get his bearings after the sudden shift in the conversation, knowing there were more options than one, and he didn’t want to allow Draco the opportunity to reject the idea completely if things went badly the first time. “If it is too much... will you try again? In a different position?” 

Grey eyes narrowed. “There are... two or three positions that might be appropriate. That I... would be willing to consider trying,” he replied stiffly, his focus on the wall.

Swallowing hard, knowing that Draco was on a knife’s edge, Harry leaned forward, kissing him softly, a slight flinch making him back away. Saying ‘Thank you’ would have felt inadequate.

Harry watched as Draco dropped the flannel and turned to face him, taking his face in hand, bringing their mouths back together, kissing him as if doing anything else would cause the world to end. And maybe it would. 

Possession spun Harry’s world until he was at the mercy of the hand moving down his chest, the mouth still latched to his hungrily. Thoughts were eclipsed, and the raw, animalistic jerks of Draco’s skilled hand around his cock were quick to bring what had been passing interest – the tumultuous reaction to Draco’s tongue sliding against his – to life under the heady influence of his incessant need to be devoured. This, Harry realised, was the culmination of where they had been together so far, and as though he could feel the depths of how far they had come, watching them rise with the tide of tribulation, he relented all control, giving to Draco what he needed, and taking what Draco was willing to offer up in return.

That was, he felt, absolute surrender of himself to Draco. Deft strokes along his cock made him break away from Draco’s lips, his body melding with the water surrounding him, the scent of Draco permeating his senses, and the feeling of his neck being cradled, to keep them close together. Teeth slid along his neck and jaw, hot breath exciting the skin as everything began to twist and turn again. It felt as though all of the walls had finally crumbled and Harry was experiencing all of who Draco was and could be, and a dizziness, only arrested by closing his eyes, overcame him. 

Fingers like twilight wound through the midnight of dark hair and pulled Harry’s head back until his neck was exposed, a groan with the weight of pleasure gathering in Harry’s chest as he _felt_ Draco. Each flick of his tongue, or nip of teeth seemed to articulate everything Draco would never say, but that he would show – for as long as there was – and somehow he was able to form words of encouragement that, while not the most eloquent, seemed to be enough. 

How a kiss, with all of its raw beauty, could make nothing apart from that moment matter, Harry didn’t know. There was the soft scratch of swollen skin against his, no ambivalence behind each breathtaking movement. Harry’s pleasure was paramount. There was no teasing quality to the quick movements of Draco’s hand – only the promise of abandon that Harry craved, and only at Draco’s hand. Needing to feel those greedy lips against his, they were delivered with perfect anticipation on Draco’s part, the added sensation of noses pressing into each other, and lips parting, closing, and tongues winding around each other added tinder, stoking the flames that began to make Harry’s blood rush and his heartbeat flutter erratically. 

As he was reduced to ash, he limply pressed his face against Draco’s, their lips touching, sharing one another’s breaths.

“Draco,” Harry moaned hoarsely. “Fuck – like that.” 

No sooner had he got the words out, he was engulfed in the near-perfection of the moment. The grip of firm fingers and palm working up his shaft, only to tighten as they reached the head of his cock, was too much. Consciousness fell away, and Harry was suspended on the precipice of madness, until there was nothing but the freefall into the rushing depths of pleasure. His lips parted, quivering, forehead pressed against Draco’s, the trembling in his body gradually subsiding with the flow of semen and a lazy kiss against half-parted lips. The tips of Draco’s eyelashes tickled his cheek as grey eyes closed, their gazes only stopping to caress one another briefly before the distance grew once again.

One final kiss followed, but Harry’s lips felt almost numb, and the remainder of his bath passed in a haze, his mind and body seemingly disconnected. Sparing Draco any more distress, Harry remained silent, and simply settled on his side, closing his eyes after he’d been placed in bed, the routine complete. 

Like a snuffed candle, the lights went out and a sliver of brightness spread across the bed, then the door closed gently. In the darkness, the faint sound, one Harry hadn’t heard in over a fortnight, of turbulent strings prompted sleep to wrap its quivering arms around him until there was only the peace of darkness and a quiet mind.

**~*~*~*~**

Sweat pooled on Harry’s lower back, making him feel uncomfortable. Draco’s body was pressed tightly against him, and a cool chill ran over his damp skin, the bedding moist beneath his body. When he reached for his bottle, the sensation of sticky skin made him grimace. The amount of body heat Draco generated in his sleep was almost too much for Harry, but he had no desire to complain – not when that furnace-like warmth had kept the chill away when he’d been at his worst. 

Draco’s arm shifted, almost peeling away from him, and he relieved his bladder. A faint red tinged Harry’s cheeks and neck, and he wiped his fringe from his face. Draco, apparently wide awake in less than a heartbeat, as was his wont, leaned over the side of the bed and began messing with something that Harry couldn’t see. His eyes followed the curve of Draco’s spine appreciatively, and he smiled faintly when Draco turned around, but then noticed the thermometer in his hand, his expression deflating slightly. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked.

“Checking your temperature. I’m concerned that you may be feverish after last night.”

Harry tried to protest, but Draco wasn’t having any of it, so he consented, letting the instrument rest in his mouth as he waited.

When his mouth was no longer occupied by the thermometer, Harry said, flushing, “You generate a lot of body heat.”

“I could go back to my own rooms,” Draco muttered, and once the initial shock had passed, Harry realised he was being given a choice, not that Draco wanted to return his old room.

“I don’t want you to go anywhere. I was just hot. I’m fine - really.”

Draco’s expression was dubious. “I don’t particularly want to go back to my own room, either. But this won’t do.”

Harry smiled broadly. “I’m not cold any more. You make sure of that.”

A lingering frown tugged at Draco’s lips until he smiled finally, stating, “I suppose I could ask Mrs Prout to obtain a lighter cover.”

After a soothing bath and his stretches, Harry joined Narcissa for breakfast. Exchanging pleasantries, Harry began to eat slowly. His appetite was stronger than it had been in the past, but he was only able to have a few bites of toast and some of his eggs, ignoring the rest on his plate, his hunger sated. 

He took a sip of his tea, and Narcissa looked at him. “I presume,” she began pleasantly, “that I have you to thank for the need to redecorate - and, indeed, _rebuild_ \- the yellow morning room?”

Harry’s face paled as he set a shaking cup back in the saucer. 

“One of the vases in there was a gift to one of Draco’s ancestors from the Grand Vizier to the Shah of Persia in the sixteenth century,” she added mildly. “And if the crack in the mirror won’t stabilise, two singularly unpleasant incubi will escape _again_. It took half a dozen Malfoys over a month to contain them last time.”

Stammering, Harry finally managed some sort of apology. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, knowing his conversation with Draco the previous evening was the cause of that.

“Oh, not at all, Harry. I was never overly fond of that particular shade of yellow in any case, and the rug was frankly an eyesore; I’d have disposed of it years ago if it hadn’t been Draco’s paternal grandmother’s.” She cleared her throat gently. “I wish you’d send word with Mrs Prout when you’re planning to provoke him to this degree, though. I could at least make sure that the house-elves keep him out of the less disposable parts of the house. If he’d done that sort of damage to the green sitting room, Auror Dawlish’s dressing room would have caved in.”

Harry felt awful. He hadn’t intended for the conversation to go the direction it had. “Excuse me, Narcissa,” Harry said, backing away from the table.

“I presumed you _did_ do it intentionally.” For all it was a statement, it carried what he had learned to recognise as a questioning note. “Draco’s far more tractable when he’s been soundly trounced.”

Harry stopped. “I’m really sorry. I... didn’t mean the conversation to go that direction. It just... did.”

“Hmm.” She sounded faintly surprised. “I suppose you aren’t all that practiced in controlling conversations with a mind like Draco’s. He will tend to take the reins if given the slenderest opportunity.” 

“I’m sorry, Narcissa. Excuse me. I need some time.”

Narcissa appeared mildly nonplussed, but assented complaisantly enough, and Harry returned to the bedroom, feeling horrible. Needing a distraction, he put a DVD in the player, but not before noticing another new addition to the bedroom. The painting Teddy had given Harry for Christmas was hanging on the wall, where he vaguely remembered a rather ugly landscape being before, and there was a wooden box, a very familiar box, that Harry recognised immediately on the chest of drawers by the bathroom door. He knew the contents by heart, after having looked at them countless times over the years, and he felt a swell of warmth, suitably distracting, spread through him. 

Manoeuvring toward the box, he opened the lid, and glanced inside, seeing the few items he had that had belonged to his parents. Draco, he realised, must have already gone through some of the boxes from Hightrees, and brought more things that were Harry’s to the room they shared, and there was a tight sensation in his chest as the contents became less of a blur. His parents’ marriage certificate, a lone shoe that had been his father’s, a few pieces of jewellery, a few photos, Harry’s birth certificate, and a few other odds and ends, lay inside. He inhaled sharply, appreciation – which, as an afterthought, he realised, probably should have been irritation, but wasn’t – swelling within him at another one of Draco’s silent gestures. He noticed there were a few things missing, but he trusted Draco not to have done anything with the Snitch Dumbledore had given him, or the Invisibility Cloak.

There was also another photo, Harry realised, when he moved toward the bed to get the remote control for the TV, on the bedside table: the one of him and Teddy that had been taken at Andromeda’s house, given to him for Christmas. In a slight daze, unsure what to make of Draco’s behaviour – as it was so wildly contradictory; the ease of his destroying one thing, only to build another in its place, left Harry feeling a range of emotions that he found incredibly difficult to define – he turned on the TV and lost himself in a film. 

There came a knock at the door sometime later, Mrs Prout entering with a stack of clothing after he’d called for entrance. Her warm smile forced one to Harry’s face. The housekeeper had been an undeniable asset in many regards, particularly since they had arrived at the Manor. Her assistance when Harry had got worse after Ginny’s spell had been removed, her routinely taking Draco’s tea to him in the mornings, baking something as whimsical as a pecan tart for Draco when Harry had wanted nothing more than to show how much he cared, bringing his clean washing and putting it away with never a complaint – Harry realised he’d never properly given his appreciation for her loyalty and complete lack of censure. Before she could leave again, Harry said, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I appreciate what you do for me. Thank you, Eleanor.” 

She coloured brilliantly. “Oh, it’s my pleasure, Harry. You’re no trouble.” Her smile flickered for a moment, though; enough that Harry could tell something was on her mind.

“Is everything alright?”

A tiny frown appeared on her face, and she fidgeted nervously with the button on her cuff for a moment before she spoke. “It’s... well... Oh, I don’t really like to... It’s just Mr Malfoy. There’s no talking to him sometimes.”

A hearty laugh rumbled in Harry’s chest, and he noticed that she visibly relaxed. “I think I can agree with that.”

She smiled. “He... he does things, doesn’t he? And doesn’t tell you about them, and then when you find out, there’s nothing you can do.”

Laughing again, Harry said, “Yeah, that he does. But that’s his way of showing he cares.” A fond smile swept across Harry’s face. “He hasn’t done anything to upset you, has he?” He was genuinely concerned.

Smiling tensely, she said, “He hasn’t upset me, no, it’s just... oh, dear. I don’t like to... but I saw my Gringotts statement last week. At first, I thought they must have made a mistake, but they said not.”

Harry waited, listening.

“It’s just... oh...”

Jumping to the only conclusion he could, Harry asked with confusion, “Is he not paying you enough?”

She raised her head to look up from the carpet and meet his gaze wide-eyed. “Harry, he’s paying me twice what he started out paying me! And I really don’t... I can’t... I mean, I tried to say something to him about it, and he just... well, he just _looked_ at me, and I...” She trailed off, quite flustered. “And that’s not all. I don’t know how much else there is, exactly, but he gave the children another owl last month!” She straightened her apron, trying to compose herself. “I only know that because Roland mentioned in his letter that their new owl had almost taken Douglas Biggs’s hand off when he tried to snatch Henry’s letter!” 

Considering, Harry realised he was quite grateful that he wasn’t the only one who struggled at working Draco out: his idiosyncratic way of showing he cared about people was taking some getting used to. “We both appreciate everything you do. He’s not going to stop, you realise. It’s taken me long enough to realise it, but he sort of does things like that when he cares. He’d never admit it, but I think I can safely say that.” Harry stopped and looked at Mrs Prout; her entire face was red with embarrassment. “You’re family, you know.”

Mrs Prout’s dark eyes brimmed with tears as she said, “Oh, Harry, I... you’re such a dear young man; you...” She buried her face in her apron for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She was still flustered and a bit teary. “It must be my time of life.”

Smiling, Harry said, “If you need anything, just let me know.”

She smiled back. “Oh, no, dear, I have more than I could ever need! Mr and Mrs Malfoy are more than generous, and the children... Oh! Thank you for what you did for them. The twins were beside themselves!”

“It wasn’t a problem.” He smiled, completely happy with his world for a change. Sending letters to the children hadn’t taken much effort, and if it had helped to limit the amount of negative attention they received, Harry was more than happy to have done it.

“Mr Malfoy said they’re to come here for the summer; he’s had the house-elves preparing rooms for them already.”

“I’ll be staying here… indefinitely,” Harry replied, flushing.

Mrs Prout looked more than a little pleased by that statement. “I’m glad. I don’t wish to speak out of turn, but you seem... more comfortable here than you did at Hightrees. More at home.”

Harry’s face felt even hotter. “I am. And you don’t have to worry about speaking out of turn with me. Draco, yes, but not me.” Harry shrugged. “I hope I’ll be able to meet the children this time. They seemed to have a lot of fun at Christmas.”

Mrs Prout was beaming. “Oh, they did. The garden at home wasn’t really big enough for them to play in; they had a wonderful time at Hightrees. You were both so generous... And the snow! I was so worried that you’d be angry about that snowman! And Matilda told me that Henry had thrown snowballs at Mr Malfoy - oh, dear, I could have died of shame!”

Harry had had many conversations with Mrs Prout, but this was the most direct she’d been, and he found that he liked the ease of her conversation, and her honesty. It was something he could relate to more than the usual indirect style of the Malfoys. Not that he _couldn’t_ talk to the Malfoys – he just tended to end up out of his depth, unsure if he was really following anything they were saying at all. “It’s alright. I don’t know how Draco got the snow, but it was nice.”

The question seemed to surprise her, and she shook her head slightly as she smiled her answer. “House-elves; half a dozen of them spend most of the morning conjuring it, and then he cast the charms to keep it there, because it was too warm, really.”

Harry was shocked silent. 

“I thought he’d done it for you, so that you had a proper winter garden to look out on,” she added.

“I-I didn’t know,” Harry said, looking around at the evidence of the many things, small, but no less meaningful, Draco had done.

“Then I suppose this is another of those things he does for you, that you only find out about after the fact.” Appearing as if something was preying on her mind, she hesitated, then said, “Like Sarah and her Potions homework.”

A giddy grin sat upon Harry’s face. He had to force himself to continue listening to her, his own mind more preoccupied with Draco’s sentiments. “What did he do with Sarah’s homework?”

“She - oh, when she told me about it, I was mortified! But she’s always been... more forward than I’ve ever been - she’s very good at Potions, you see; she always has been. And the school have supported her wonderfully; she’s been working towards a scholarship to study Potions at the Collegium; Professor Alembic has been helping her. She’s been experimenting with a variation on Dreamless Sleep, one that’s more suitable for longer-term use, but she came to... oh, I don’t really understand it; it was a problem of some sort, to do with the way it’s absorbed into the body, and how it’s less effective when you use it for long periods. And she wrote to Mr Malfoy to ask his advice! And he answered her!”

Harry had a fleeting moment of wondering why Draco never told him these things, and, with more curiosity than he could understand, he really wished he did know what Draco did during the day, but he shoved it aside, having the feeling Draco was unlikely to share, or view his actions as mundane enough to offer only simple explanations.

“Professor Alembic understands the potion but not its medical effects, you see,” Mrs Prout was explaining. “And Madam Pomfrey understands the medical effects, but not the potion. It was Madam Pomfrey who suggested that Sarah contact Mr Malfoy; she’s been in touch with him about you, of course.”

“Madam Pomfrey? Sweet Merlin, I don’t know anything going on outside this room, do I?” he asked with surprise.

She smiled again. “It was your medical history; the records from St Mungo’s don’t go back through your childhood. She’s owled every few weeks since then to inquire after you. She offered to come down from Hogwarts through the holidays to help, if she could. Mr Malfoy Flooed her to explain that it wouldn’t be appropriate. He was very charming.” 

Harry hadn’t even known Draco had contacted Madam Pomfrey, let alone her offer to come to the Manor to help. “I just… haven’t kept up with anything.”

Mrs Prout shook her head reassuringly. “Well, nobody’s really wanted to bother you with other things, have they? But Professor McGonagall owls and Floos every two or three weeks; I don’t think she’s entirely confident in Mr Malfoy,” Mrs Prout said, looking highly disapproving. “And of course Mrs Weasley’s being _most_ attentive.” She sounded quite nettled about that, and Harry recalled with something between unease and amusement that she and Mrs Weasley had met – and taken a dislike to one another – at the anniversary party.

“I should send Professor McGonagall a note, shouldn’t I? Draco’s changed a lot since the war, Eleanor. I hope you understand that. A lot of other people seem to be having trouble getting their heads round it.”

Mrs Prout bristled very slightly. “Mr Malfoy is one of the most charming, considerate young men I could hope to meet. He’s never said a cross word to me, and never been anything but kind to the children, and his devotion to you...” Her expression became an amalgam of fierce and teary again as she continued. “Well, if I hadn’t read in the _Prophet_ about him having confessed under Veritaserum to what happened all those years ago, I’d never have believed it. People can say what they choose; there’s no more evil in him than there is in - in you!” she finished, blushing brightly again.

Harry looked at the box that Draco had brought into the room and smiled, saying, “He’s everything,” very softly. 

“Oh! I nearly forgot,” Mrs Prout said, and Harry’s head snapped back to her. “There’s another letter from your cousin and one from your solicitor.” She reached into her pocket and removed the envelopes.

Uncertain if he really wanted to read anything else Dudley had to say, Harry reached a tentative hand out and accepted the two missives. 

“Will you be joining Mrs Malfoy for lunch?” Mrs Prout asked.

Harry looked up quickly, not having realised that much time had passed already. “Uh – yes, I think so,” he replied, holding the letter tightly. Time, Harry had noticed, seemed to slip away from him much more easily than it had in the past; one moment it was breakfast, then as though the hours rolled over like a Crup begging for attention, it was dinner and he was asleep again, beginning the routine as though he’d barely been able to take a breath.

“It’ll just be a few more minutes.”

Harry nodded, and Mrs Prout left him alone. With a sigh, he opened the parchment and read it quickly, feeling a surge of anger that he couldn’t explain. He placed it on the bedside table and then went to the dining table, where Narcissa was already seated.

Narcissa’s demeanour was as though nothing was amiss, and he picked at his fingers nervously as he settled. “Narcissa, Dudley said you visited my aunt and uncle.”

She inclined her head. “Did he?”

“What… um, happened?”

“I found them… interesting.” She tilted her head the other way, and he realised with dismay that he recognised _everything_ about her expression and posture from seeing it in Draco – when he was about to be obstructive, obfuscatory and wilfully obtuse.

“Why did you go?” Harry asked, sighing. He knew it had to do with his conversation with Draco a few days prior about his family, and had the distinct feeling that someone had been hurt, if Draco’s treatment of the gutter-press – and Rita Skeeter – was anything to go by.

With a charming smile, Narcissa replied, “It would otherwise have been a singularly uneventful day, barring your company. That is always a true pleasure, Harry.” 

Fingernails dug into Harry’s palm, and he ignored the pretty compliment. “Draco asked you to go, didn’t he?”

Narcissa laughed lightly. “Certainly not.”

“What did your visit to my aunt and uncle have to do with Dudley’s letter and the Howler he received from Draco?”

Her eyebrows rose. “I’m afraid I know nothing about either.”

Harry knew he was out of his league with Narcissa, but he was growing angry with her misdirecting discourse. “Bluntly, why would you visit them?”

Smiling, she said, “Interest. Curiosity. Morbid fascination. Lack of anything else to do this morning. Really, Harry, you begin to sound almost suspicious.” 

“I know how Draco is.”

“Mmm, he is tolerably well. I believe the headache has finally dissipated.” Her air of complete innocence was even more convincing than Draco’s. 

“They’re Muggles,” Harry ground out.

Narcissa nodded wryly. “They most assuredly are.” 

“They also were terrible guardians for me.”

At that, her smile faded and she frowned very slightly. “Yes.” 

“Did anything happen to either of them that I should know about?”

Narcissa appeared to consider the question for a moment. “I don’t believe so. Unless you consider that you should know that your uncle spat black coffee over the antimacassar?” 

“Why did he do that?” Harry asked tightly.

“He was apparently surprised to discover that I am a witch.” A sparkle in her eyes invited him to laugh with her about that, but he wasn’t distracted.

“I imagine they’re still in Little Whinging?” Harry asked, testing the waters. Changing the subject and distracting Draco in the past had worked, so he attempted to do the same with Narcissa – and to see if his relatives had been banished or murdered.

“Yes, they returned there once it was all over. Against the Ministry’s advice.” 

“They never were very... vigilant. I imagine Vernon was purple the whole time. He never quite liked witches and wizards.”

“That did indeed become clear.” 

“I wonder what Millicent had to do to win them over.” After having spoken, Harry wondered if they had been cursed or bewitched and an uneasy feeling of worry settled within him.

“Very little, as I understand it.” Narcissa tilted her head slightly in recollection, apparently still perfectly at ease with the conversation and the direction it had taken. “A cousin of hers was one of the Muggle Liaison Community Aurors assigned to keep an eye on them after they left the house. She went to stay with him for a time. It seems that he and his colleagues had already reconciled them to some degree to our world, and when she and your cousin formed - apparently - a lasting attachment practically on sight, and she proved herself quite acceptable as a potential daughter in law - I understand that she reminded your uncle somewhat of his sister? – they were... less disinclined to prevent the match than might otherwise have been anticipated.”

Harry shook his head tightly, clenching his jaw. 

“I am sorry to grieve you, Harry.” He looked at her narrowly, but there was nothing to be seen in her face or bearing apart from an echo of the quiet sincerity with which she had spoken.

Harry liked that both Malfoys seemed willing to protect him, but the Dursleys would always be a sore spot for him, and that Narcissa had visited them hacked him off. He was torn on whether to be grateful or worried for the Dursleys’ wellbeing, and the bitter side of him snapped before he could rein in his temper. 

“Did they show you the cupboard and say ‘Harry Potter slept here’?”

If she was startled, she gave no indication of it. Her expression did not flicker and her voice was perfectly even as she answered him. “No, they did not. Indeed, your aunt seemed... regretful.”

“I’m surprised. They could make loads of Galleons off it and have Dudley and Millicent exchange it.” Harry’s teeth hurt from grinding them together.

“The thought did not appear to have occurred to either of them.”

Harry scoffed. “They probably made enough from Skeeter.”

“They made no reference to her whatever.”

Harry remained silent. The fact that Narcissa had remained so calm and charming throughout the whole thing made him even angrier. He hated that he couldn’t get a straight answer without being led in ten different directions, much like he usually was by Draco when Draco was in the right – or wrong – mood. He couldn’t remain sitting there; the desire to say something incredibly crude was becoming harder to contain, so he made a decision and followed through, without thought or worry for the consequences.

“Excuse me,” he ground out tightly, and left the table before Narcissa could say anything. The bedroom door slammed shut, making the walls reverberate as he crossed the room and stopped in front of the garden window and stared at the plants. Dudley had written an apology for his letter, but Harry really didn’t know why. He’d not been intentionally hurtful, so Harry couldn’t work out why Narcissa had taken it upon herself to visit Vernon and Petunia, when he had absolutely nothing to do with them any more.

Some indeterminable amount of time passed, having given Harry enough time to calm down considerably. He looked around when the bedroom door opened and Draco entered with tea and sandwiches. 

“My mother seems to think you had indigestion earlier on. Was she right, or did she just think I need to talk to you?”

“She visited my aunt and uncle,” Harry stated.

Draco inhaled. “Yes, she told me she had. She didn’t take to them.” His tone was neutral.

“Did you ask her to, or indicate in any way that you wished her to visit them?” Harry asked.

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “No. I can’t imagine why you’d think that. You know perfectly well I prefer to take retribution myself.”

After seeing Draco with the press on the doorstep and Rita Skeeter, Harry was well-aware Draco liked to handle things himself, and that was what scared him. “And what exactly would that be? Hex their bowels into knots? Put Vernon’s head on his arse? I know I... asked after Aloysius and how they treated him, but I would rather just forget they exist.”

Draco registered mild surprise at Harry’s statement, then said, “Then by all means do so; I won’t attempt to prevent you.” Harry noted that he distinctly failed to answer his question regarding what Draco had planned to do to them.

“Don’t do anything to them. Please. Just leave them alone,” Harry said. “They don’t deserve your attention.”

Draco’s inscrutable masked dropped abruptly, and the look that replaced it was almost frightening. “They hurt you. That demands action. Not from you, if you choose not to, but they _must_ bear consequences. It needn’t be your concern, if you prefer to have no part in it, but please, Harry, do not ask me not to act against them.” 

The jolt at hearing his name ran through him, and he noted the pleading tone in Draco’s voice. He didn’t know what to do. He felt nothing for the Dursleys apart from disdain, but he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened to Draco because of them. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel so bloody cared for or if he was supposed to be angry. He was perfectly aware of what Draco was capable of doing with his wand, and he felt fearful for them should he give his permission.

“I swear that I will not kill them, or even do physical harm, if you forbid it, but please do not deny me this,” Draco said, his voice low, even earnest.

“What they did... there is no excuse for it, but it’s over. I don’t understand why you’re getting worked up over something that happened so long ago.”

“They wronged you. It doesn’t matter how long ago it was, the wrong has never been righted or avenged. That is... it cannot be borne.”

The temptation to consent to whatever Draco wanted to do was there, and Harry clenched his teeth tightly as he fought an inner battle against his own morality. “What do you plan to do?”

“I don’t know. I need to... consider. Reflect.”

“It’s not right, Draco. Hurting them because they hurt me is not right.”

“What they did to _you_ was ‘not right’. This is _justice_. They wronged you grievously, and so they _have_ to suffer.” 

“You don’t know how many times over the years I wish I could have blown him up and not Aunt Marge. Or let Voldemort come after them and not cared. But... I can’t...”

“Nobody is asking you to. Harry, I will swear by anything you choose to name that I will neither kill nor maim either of them, but you _must_ let me do this. Please. Let me do this.” 

Harry inhaled deeply, a shiver running down his spine at Draco saying his name again. The struggle with what he knew to be right was conflicting with his own sense of justice. He trusted Draco, but he was doing a poor job at showing that. He’d just been promised that no permanent damage would come to them by Draco’s hand, and knowing that he’d forced concession after concession from Draco, he wasn’t sure he could afford to win on this one. A wave of sickness crashed over him as he realised that no matter what, Draco was doing it because he loved Harry, but he couldn’t decide if that made better or worse: it certainly didn’t make it right. _Making him sacrifice everything for you wasn’t right, either,_ he thought, and he sighed. What Draco was asking for was against Harry’s conscience, but he’d already forced Draco past his own conscience on many occasions, so how was what Draco was asking for any different? He knew it wasn’t. As much as he knew that any relationship required sacrifices, he still struggled with _that_ sacrifice, just as he was struggling with the idea that something would happen to Draco because of them, and he didn’t know what he’d do if something happened to Draco. 

Harry could protect him as best he could, and he supposed as long as he didn’t know what happened, or when it happened, he couldn’t really demand anything other than sparing their pathetic bigoted lives. Not when it seemed to be so important to Draco’s peace of mind.

Making up his mind, Harry said, “I don’t want to know what you do. And you can’t kill them.”

“I have already promised you that.”

“I need to lie down. Please,” Harry said, caught between the intoxicating sense of being protected by someone else and what he felt was right and wrong. The intensity with which Draco seemed driven to keep Harry safe, even against hurts that had happened long ago, made him feel more important than he ever had to another human being. 

“Of course,” Draco said, and assisted him into bed. “Nothing fatal, nothing permanent. You have my word on it, if you wish.”

“I trust you,” Harry said, without hesitation, without deception.

Draco smiled, a proper smile, and Harry couldn’t help the one that tugged at his lips in response, still slightly in disbelief. 

“I will always care for you as best I can, Potter. I hold your interests dearer than my own.” 

The _thumping_ in Harry’s chest began to speed up at those words, and he looked at Draco. “I love you, too,” he said softly as Draco leaned forward, his expression flickering momentarily before he pressed a gentle kiss to Harry’s lips.

He started to pull away, but Harry didn’t want him to go anywhere, needed Draco with him. Hands reached out and took Draco’s face, pulling him in, and devouring him. The savagery of Draco’s protective side did strange things to his psyche, and it was arousing to feel so loved by another person. 

Panting, he broke away, and looked into Draco’s eyes, his voice strained with emotion as he said, “Stay.” 

To Be Continued…


	30. Chapter 30

My many thanks to Rom, who is basically co-author. :P She brings Draco and Narcissa to life. ;) My humble thanks to Calanthe for her helpful feedback. 

**Click here for the song Draco plays for Harry: (Will open in this window, so you might want to wait until the end, or copy the link into a new browser window.)**  
Albinoni – Adagio in G Minor   
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mz4dpbk8YBs

****

Chapter 30: Intentions Made Known

Draco sank to the bed without question or hesitance, and Harry pulled their mouths together, feeling the rush of that wicked tongue against his. Easily bent and shaped at Draco's hand, he felt the heat of arousal, but not the pressing need to relieve it; instead, the desire to relish it swept over him as though Draco was the glaze to his expertly-crafted exterior. The new man Harry was becoming was someone who didn't mind that he wasn't in charge of everything, that he could let himself be taken and moulded, cherished for his flaws and imperfections. No matter how jagged Draco could be, they seemed to fit, all of the rough edges lining up to create something smooth, even if there were still chips in the surface. 

Before he lost himself, Harry reluctantly ended the kiss, enraptured by Draco's consideration. He traced the high cheekbones and kiss-darkened lips with his eyes, sank into the grey depths that welcomed him in, and smiled. “Thank you. My parents' things—” his head jerked to the side slightly, angling toward the box on the chest of drawers, “—and Teddy's painting.”

“I thought you'd like them. You don't mind my having looked them out?”

It seemed there was no limit to Draco's drive to keep Harry happy. There was no need for it, to Harry’s mind; he was happy enough even without Draco bringing a painting into the bedroom, or the box containing the pieces of his parents. He knew how much Harry valued his privacy, but he'd taken a chance, one that would have pissed Harry off months ago, and had been, as Harry was coming to learn, shaping everything in his world around Harry's needs. The world at large and its unrelenting thirst for Harry's undivided attention, or to know every minor detail about his life and personal habits were an unmitigated pain in the arse, but there was nothing intrusive or malicious about Draco's choice to make Harry as comfortable as he could be in his present circumstances. 

“No. I appreciate it. And the photos.”

“I can hang more, if you like. I wasn't sure how many and which you'd want to see daily.”

Harry's already-red face grew darker. “I'd like that.” Then, with a fraction of hesitation asked, “What about you? You've got all this stuff of mine in here…” _This is our room. It should have some of your things in here, too._

An odd expression came over Draco's face. “I had hoped that this room would only be temporary. This is my house. I have a proper bedroom as well as the one I've been using in this suite. I hoped you'd share it when you're well enough to be around magic.” 

Harry, still unused to being the absolute centre of someone else's universe, flushed, his thoughts, like an autumn leaf whipped in the wind, floating with the rise and fall of draughts as he watched Draco speak. Something else appeared to occur to him and, more to himself, Harry thought, Draco said, “Though I suppose we should really take possession of the master suite, now.” He paused a moment. “The Invisibility Cloak is perfectly safe,” he added, a propos of nothing. “It just wouldn't have been appropriate to keep in here. It's too magical.”

Still taken aback by the inclusion of himself into Draco's very personal, very private space, he mouthed 'we' and rolled it around his tongue, let his lips jerk open at the odd angles two letters induced, in a very adolescent fascination with Draco's unwavering sense of 'them'. Ginny had always said 'the bedroom'.

That pale face tilted slightly as Draco looked at him. “You need your bottle again?”

“N-no. I was just... it still surprises me, I don't know why it should, when you include me with you.” Taking a breath, he continued, “I'm fine wherever you are, really.”

“Well, of course I do. Why wouldn't I?” he asked, slightly alarmed. “Or do you think I'm trying to make decisions for you? If you'd rather not stay here—”

“No,” Harry interrupted, his fingers wrapping around Draco's forearm. “That's not what I mean. I don't really... know how to explain it. Don't jump to conclusions.” Harry sighed, more from the strange barrier in their speech and choice of words than any real irritation; he'd have to work on how he spoke to Draco, he realised. “I'm not used to it, and I like it,” Harry said, smiling.

Draco regarded him with an expression he couldn't quite understand. His eyes had softened briefly, but the confusion was still evident in the arch of his eyebrows and the slight wrinkles at the corner of his mouth. “As long as you're happy.”

“I am,” Harry replied immediately. He kissed the corner of Draco's mouth, dragging his lips along that angled jaw to feel the smooth skin against his, stopping when he reached Draco's earlobe, pale hair tickling his nose. He inhaled slightly, an affectionate smile sweeping across his face at being able to taste the way Draco smelled on his tongue. It was fresh, and inviting, the sort of comfort one could never grow tired of. He was fond of the way the skin beneath his lips twitched ever so slightly as he teased it before he found his voice. “Very happy,” came the soft reassurance that followed a kiss to the delightful curve.

“You should eat something,” Draco said abruptly, but Harry didn't take offence. He knew Draco didn't do emotional, at least not in the same way; he'd probably wake up to more new additions to the bedroom, and that suited him. So long as Draco never complained about the way he chose to express himself, Harry could handle sudden changes in subject. Knowing exactly where he stood with Draco, it was easy to accept the things he didn't understand, but was more than willing to apply the effort toward learning. Even if he had to ask Narcissa for the rest of their time together, Harry would make sense of the man Draco had become. There was no need to hear 'I love you', because Harry knew Draco did – there was no doubt left in his mind that he was the absolute centre of Draco's existence, and with that came a peace he'd been missing in his life. 

Smiling, he nodded and began to eat slowly when Draco returned with the plate of ham and mustard sandwiches. He was able to stomach half of one before he realised Draco was regarding him with disapproval. “You can do better than that.” The admonishment was one that Harry hoped wouldn't become routine. He'd spent a week on liquids only, and getting back to the more robust meals, eating more, wasn't something he was overly concerned with. He hadn't, to his eyes, lost much more weight than he had before Christmas. At least when he looked at himself in the mirror, his eyes were no longer sunken in, and even if he'd lost a little of the tone he'd had as a very active Auror, he was still relatively fit. The only complaints from Draco were that he wasn't eating enough, but he could only swallow so much before being split in half would be preferable to lying in bed feeling like he'd been gutted, then stuffed. 

Draco held the other half up, the expectation clearly written on his features.

“I'm full,” Harry protested. The continuing look of disapproval from Draco seemed like it would be more appropriately directed at a misbehaving child. Though Harry had to admit, his behaviour for some time had been that way, so he supposed he deserved every bit of Healer Malfoy, not Draco: the two really were quite distinct facets of the man's personality. Harry was just glad that Draco seemed to come out more these days, in place of the impassive Healer he'd felt such a strong loathing for at the outset. 

“I won't have you passing out from hunger on me, Potter. You don't have to eat the crust. Just the rest of the sandwich.” 

Harry made an honest attempt, but only ate half before he felt like he was going to burst. The delicate touch of Draco's approving pat to Harry's stomach was enough to drag a smile to his tired face.

“Do you want some of your juice?” 

Harry eyed the glass of orange-flavoured liquid in distaste. He wasn't fond of it, but he knew Draco wouldn't leave him alone. “A little.” Taking the glass, Harry drank a bit, then handed it back to Draco. “No more. Please.”

Accepting the glass, Draco placed it on the bedside table as Harry yawned. “Do you want to watch a film for a while, or just sleep?” 

“Just sleep. Will you stay? Or have you got work to do?” Whatever Draco's answer, Harry understood. 

“I can stay. Just let me get rid of the plate.” The bed shifted as Draco stood, and Harry turned a sleepy gaze to him as the porcelain was placed on the bedside table. Grey eyes turned to Harry, scrutinising him for a moment. “I should take you to the loo, really.” 

“Yeah, probably,” Harry replied sleepily.

“And then you ought to have a bath.” 

Tractable, now that he had his mental feet under him again, Harry nodded. “Alright.” The fleeting urge to invite Draco to join him was there, but he was tired enough that he'd probably fall asleep, or at least doze as he was cocooned comfortably in the warm water, feeling Draco's hands moving over him, so he dismissed it. He was starting to think Draco liked the baths as much as he did – based on the way he touched Harry out of the water. There was, Harry appreciated, no limitation in those touches any more. Each one, no matter how simple, was something to be cherished. 

After starting the bath, Draco stripped Harry's clothes off, his fingers brushing ever so slightly against Harry's naked skin as the cloth was removed. There wasn't anything inherently sexual about it, but Harry, his heart completely open to the man before him, was fascinated by the meticulous attention as Draco shifted Harry's legs, slid the material over his hips, and eased it over his ankles and feet. The movement drew Harry's attention, a faint breeze across his skin that always garnered a reaction. To be on the receiving end of such care made him feel like a person, someone worthy of being cherished. Draco had done so many things for Harry, without complaint, without reservation, even at Harry's worst, and still accepted him for who he was completely, never asking him to be something or someone he wasn't; there was no expectation behind his gaze. As time had passed, Harry had learned to read his once completely inscrutable expressions, noticing that Draco no longer actively sought to hide behind his masks when in Harry's company. Harry knew Draco would never be as open as he was, but as long as he was able to work out how to read him, there was hope that in time he would be able to fit the rest together, understanding his lover so that there were no more rooms destroyed in a fit of anger or frustration, or so that even if things became difficult, Harry would know how to deal with Draco's cracked and broken emotional make-up. These were things he felt he needed better to learn to understand his lover, things that would, when things were complicated, allow him the clarity to make the right decision. 

Draco's hands, no matter how angry or distressed he had become about something, had never caused Harry any harm. His touch had never been rough or less than meticulous, and he had never been neglectful of Harry's personal care needs; even when he'd attempted to bring in a third party, the motive had been to spare Harry the indignation of suffering through arousal that he was unable to handle himself, and Draco was then ethically unwilling to handle for him.

Lazily, Harry rested his cheek against Draco's collarbone and neck as he was carried to the loo. After he'd moved his bowels, his body sank into warm water, a soft moan escaping his tired lips as he was settled. Half-lidded eyes watched Draco for a moment, a slight smile curving Harry's lips. The temptation to rest finally began too much, and Harry capitulated to floating in and out of consciousness, as pale, impossibly arousing fingers and hands cleaned his body. And it was all _his_. Those fingers, that mouth, cock – all of it was Harry's, and all of him, each inch of skin that Draco's skilled fingers moved across belonged irrevocably to Draco. It was a realisation that probably should have scared him, but he found contentment in the ease of their relationship, now that he'd stopped second-guessing everything. _This,_ he thought sleepily, _is my family. He is my family…_

The room they now shared, and the future room they would share, was and would all be a physical display of what had already manifested within his heart and mind, and again he felt the weight of two letters on his tongue, the ephemeral thought to give it to Draco, then take it back, coursing through him, dissipating when he realised something that should have hit him sooner – the all-too-happy feeling of those two letters – we – having made him forget that there had once been another master of that house. 

“Isn't your mum still in the master suite?” Harry asked abruptly, his speech slow.

Draco blinked in surprise. “Well, yes. But that doesn't matter.” He frowned slightly. “Would you like me to ask her to move out completely? It shouldn't take long to get the Dower House back into order. Or there's the London house. Or the Paris house.” 

Unable to stop himself, Harry laughed, the sound echoing in the small bathroom. Draco appeared nonplussed, and Harry debated for a moment whether or not he should share Narcissa's words. Taking a chance, hoping that it wouldn't upset or distress Draco, he said, “Your mum mentioned something of the sort once, actually. Said you'd come up with reasons why it was better for her to leave. Better for her, I mean. But I don't mind her here. I enjoy her company.” _Except when she meddles…_ he thought, quite ungraciously, controlling the frown that threatened to tug at his lips.

Draco smiled. “Good. I know she holds you in high regard.” 

Harry couldn't help the brief laughter that once again shook his body, finally easing, a slow smile playing across his lips. He sometimes felt like he was speaking English, while Draco and Narcissa were fluidly using French, their choices of words often leaving him a bit confused. Now that he understood what the hell 'being held in high regard' meant in their strange language, he was better able to understand, and thought that he might perhaps do well to adopt similar phrasings when the occasion called for it. It would take a while, he knew, to make sense and decode most of it, but he knew the most important things meant now, and that was enough to be going on with.

Appearing mystified by Harry's behaviour, Draco continued, “She may have vacated the suite already, actually.”

Feeling the love of his family was like tasting sunlight in the summer, a feeling of warmth and life being breathed into him, the elation overwhelming in the absolute happiness that overcame him. He was right where he belonged for once. 

Reaching for Draco, he pulled him forward by the hair, claiming pale lips. His mouth lingered as the rush of desire that he lacked the energy to follow through on rippled along his skin, seeping into his very being. Draco had given him _everything_ without even trying, and he couldn't help the reaction, his eyes rolling back as Draco's hand stroked his cock. And he wanted to let Draco carry on, let himself be guided until there was nowhere else to go, but he was too tired. Reluctantly, he stopped the kiss, and placed his hand atop Draco's, stilling the movement, but not without a soft, appreciative moan. 

The strokes became gentle, affectionate, rather than urgent and desire-charged, and Harry kissed Draco again, the barest touch of lips, apologising. “I'm just tired. Later, maybe.”

“I'm a Healer, Potter. You don't need to explain it to me.” Harry offered an appreciative smile; Draco appeared to be considering something. “Do you think you can doze through your physio?” 

Harry nodded.

“Do, then. I'll put you to bed when I've finished with you.” There was no mistaking the twitch in his cock at that, and Draco hesitated for a moment, rolling his eyes. “I could have put that better.” 

“'S ok',” Harry replied, a lazy grin on his face. He wished he had the energy to enjoy Draco's hands against him, but he knew it probably wouldn't be a good idea, and he wasn't willing to push his limits any more than he already had. It had been an emotional few weeks for him, and now that things were beginning to settle down a bit, the urgency behind all of his stupidity had seemed to fade. 

He tried to stay awake for as long as possible, but he eventually gave way to the call of sleep, vaguely aware of being lifted and moved to the bed. Draco had said he'd stay, and Harry wanted his arms wrapped around Draco for a change. For a while, he felt nothing apart from the bed, then there was the familiar easing of his muscles as Draco tended to his limbs. When Draco was finished, he mumbled for help being moved to his side, and Draco slid into bed with him, and he mumbled Draco's name, indistinguishable reassurances following, as warm, soft skin settled against his. He reached out, guided by instinct, feeling Draco's body mould against his. 

Hours later, when Harry's bladder could no longer be ignored, he woke up, with a mouthful of pale fluff. He pulled away, wondering how the hell Draco had got himself so tangled up in Harry, and it took some effort, a slightly cranky grunt making him pause for a moment. If he didn't move soon, though, they'd both need a bath, and Harry wasn't really sure he could deal with that embarrassment. Gracelessly, he flopped onto his back, lacking the ability to control his momentum once his hips had shifted, the solid circumference of Draco's arm beneath him. Another sound of discontent came from a still-sleeping Draco, and Harry apologised, reaching for his bottle, trying to shift his weight, to no avail. He relieved his bladder quickly, ease spreading through him as he replaced the cap. Reaching for his glasses, he noticed that it was nearly dark outside, and a lamp in the corner was casting a soft glow throughout the bedroom. After cleaning his hands on the towel and using whatever goo Draco had obtained, he shifted again, trying to get Draco to move his arm: Harry knew his weight couldn't be comfortable.

When he finally stopped squirming about, he noticed the cello. He smiled broadly when Draco started moving about, seemingly searching for something, his eyes still closed. Perfectly content to be back in Draco's arms, he tried to anchor himself against him so he could lie on his side again. As if automatically, Draco's arm braced his back, and they were lying face to face again. Narcissa must have made Draco aware of Harry's desire to watch him play, and not caring for the distasteful smell or taste of morning breath, he kissed Draco softly.

There was an immediate response. Draco’s eyes opened slowly, and Harry felt Draco’s erection against his leg, and he deepened what should have been only a brief kiss, his own desires heavy.

“How do you feel?” 

“Better.” Harry grinned, and kissed Draco again. “You're going to play for me.” He was slightly surprised by that, but not about to argue. 

Draco huffed slightly, and Harry kissed him again, letting his lips and mouth linger a bit longer. 

“I think we missed dinner,” Harry said.

“Hmph. I'm sure of it. You need to eat. Finish your juice. I'll ask Mrs Prout to bring something in.”

Harry rolled his eyes. 

“Would you prefer a yoghurt drink?” 

It was then that he realised Draco was reading him far too well. Not that he minded Draco being able to anticipate his needs or wants, or being able to discern his dislikes based on a simple facial expression, but it was also going to take some getting used to. “I'll give it a go.”

Draco nodded and got out of bed. He called for Mrs Prout after going to the loo, and shortly thereafter, she returned with a plate of finger foods. They sat in bed together, and as Harry debated asking Draco about his days, he ate slowly, picking up a piece of fresh fruit. Juice dropped on his chest and stomach, and distracted by it, he dropped the whole piece. 

Harry looked down in slight irritation, watching as Draco reached over, his finger gathering the droplets, bringing his finger to his mouth, and sucking it off before reaching to capture the escaped cube of melon. And completely enraptured by the way Draco's lips pursed around the nimble digit, Harry stifled a groan of appreciation, his mind giving way to thoughts about the shapes Draco’s mouth made when he ate and spoke. His bottom lip always seemed to curl a bit more when he said ‘Potter’, his tone now completely affectionate, rather than scornful. No matter how dry his words, there was something fascinating about the way his mouth formed them. Behind ‘we’ there was a certain twitch that almost gave the word a tone of its own; there was absolutely no way the intention or meaning behind it could be misinterpreted. When he said 'please', his tongue brushed the bottom of his teeth lightly, and a desire to see him say it again, and use that earnest tone again, since they both happened so seldom, settled over Harry. Draco's mouth, Harry realised, was wicked, not only in its ability to deliver pleasure of the body, but in its visual sensuality, highly aesthetically pleasing with each movement.

Flushing, he forced himself to pick up another piece of fruit, and watched as Draco deliberately licked his lips, drawing Harry's attention to his tongue; if he could have captured it right then, he'd have sucked it into his mouth, showing Draco what he wanted to do to his body. He finished eating, interest in Draco's mouth, and sudden – slightly disconcerting – fantasies of hearing him beg, going straight to his cock. Hunger sated, he settled comfortably against the bed, enticed by the thought of the cello again, and seeing Draco play. He smiled as he turned to look at it, so obviously on display for Harry to see. 

A pettish sigh came from beside him. “I probably ought to put some clothes on.”

Jolted from his moment of appreciative anticipation, Harry turned, brow furrowed in incomprehension, and asked, “What? Why?”

“Wouldn't want to offend the cello.” 

“Oh,” Harry replied, slightly disappointed that Draco was going to cover himself again already. “It wouldn't offend me.” Harry smirked.

Draco smirked in return and stretched. Green eyes followed the lines of Draco's body appreciatively, and he watched in confusion as Draco prodded the pads of his ring finger and little finger with his thumbnail. 

“I've still got pins and needles,” he said, almost an accusation. “My fingering's going to be all over the place.”

“Pins and ne—” And Harry remembered dropping onto Draco's arm. “Sorry. I didn't expect your arm to be there.”

A look of amusement was on Draco's face. “We were sharing a bed. I was right next to you. Where _did_ you expect my arm to be?”

“If I'd waited, we'd both have needed baths,” Harry muttered.

Shrugging, Draco said, “It's happened before. And I've had considerably worse on me.”

Harry flushed uncomfortably, trying to recall when he would have soiled Draco. The only conclusion he could come to was when Ginny's spell had been removed. He remembered everything else clearly – that was the only time he wasn't completely sure on. 

Draco prodded his fingers again. “If I fuck up my fingering, you only have yourself to blame.”

“I can't imagine you fucking up fingering.” Draco slid off the bed and wandered toward the instrument, Harry's eyes following the movement of his body. His face was flushing brilliantly, and summoning courage to continue being playful, he added, “I quite enjoyed it last time.”

Glancing at Harry seriously, Draco said, “I'm untidy on the D string at the best of times.”

Laughter rolled through Harry, and he watched as Draco finally hefted the cello and settled into position. There was a lot of messing with little knobs and moving the stick over the strings, while Draco scowled, and Harry watched, fascinated by his concentration. He didn't have a clue what all of the tweaking was, but he waited patiently, admiring Draco's skin against the rich colour of the cello, and imagined the curve and rigid set of his body behind it, feeling the stirrings of arousal again.

Draco glanced up, still messing with things – Harry had no idea what he was doing – and didn't quite make eye contact. “Any preferences?”

“What do you like to play?”

Draco shrugged. “I don't have strong preferences. Mrs Prout is fond of the variation on the Pachelbel in D. My mother likes Sarasate.”

“I don't know the names of anything. I just know what sounds I like. Usually the sad ones.” Harry felt a bit self-conscious admitting that, but it was true. Of everything he'd heard Draco play, he'd most appreciated the ones that sounded like weeping strings. 

Draco appeared pensive for a moment, then he seemed to make up his mind. The song began slowly, wrapping Harry in long phrases of an air that rose and fell in measured elegy. He watched Draco as he played, his fluid grace like water passing over rocks in a stream, never a break in the flow, adding fuel to the already active fantasies he'd been playing out in his mind. The music felt like an actual physical presence in the room, completely unlike the distant strains he’d heard when Draco had been in the music room. His eyes were closed as he played, his fingers pressing against strings, the slight _tick_ of them as they were pressed down and released reaching Harry’s ear, almost adding to the perfection of the piece. He could hear the white strands – that reminded Harry of Draco’s hair – of the stick in Draco’s hand touch the strings slightly before a note even sounded, and the momentary rasp before the sound was resonant and velvety. Draco, Harry noted, was breathing in time with each stroke across the strings. 

Closing his eyes, Harry felt the rise in the music, his hand moving to his cock. He didn't understand why it was so arousing to watch Draco play, but it was, and even the brief touch was enough to ease some of the growing pressure. 

Then, as he opened his eyes, the room was oddly brighter, and he turned toward the door, shocked to register Ron's voice calling, “Harry, mate, you're not going—”

“Ron!” Harry yelled, the music stopping, cut off by a snarled, “Weasley!” from Draco.

All of the colour drained from Ron's face, and he turned and fled.

Surprised, Harry’s heart was hammering in his chest, his erection withering at the shock. 

Draco stood and laid down the cello, and stalked toward the still wide-open door. His expression was murderous, but before he could storm off after Ron, Harry said, “Draco, leave him.”

When Draco’s head snapped toward Harry, his voice obviously distracting him momentarily, the expression Harry saw was clearly bloodthirsty. “Are you alright?”

Confused by the question, Harry answered, “Fine. Just a bit surprised.”

Draco turned a longing gaze to the anteroom, seemed to make a decision and closed the door firmly. “I shall have to ask my mother to have a word with him about knocking.” He laid the implement he’d been drawing across the strings on the table, then walked to the cello, crouched before it, and began messing about with it again, nothing less than the utmost care dedicated to it as he fiddled with the knobs again, apparently loosening the strings. 

It was easy to discern that Draco was angry. Rather than say anything that could upset things further, Harry silently watched, admiring the curve of Draco’s arse, a perfect view from his position in bed. Seeing those thighs spread and his arse flexing as Draco moved gave way to another fantasy, this one quite detailed in the way Draco’s long body would look and feel as he lowered himself onto Harry’s prick, and his face grew hot as he took his cock in hand and stroked himself gently. 

Draco’s gaze fell on Harry when he’d apparently run out of things to do with the instrument, and he said, “Nott would have knocked.”

Face growing hotter, Harry replied, “Ron might have; I wasn't really paying attention…” looking at his cock, then Draco.

Draco huffed. “You're going to tell me not to hex him, aren't you?” 

Harry shrugged. “I don't want to know. Just remember he has a son on the way.” 

Frowning, Draco said, “Looked like a daughter to me.” 

Harry shrugged again. “I just know what I was told.”

Seemingly distracted, Draco eyed Harry’s crotch. “Are you planning to do something with that?” 

“Are you offering?” he asked.

A slow, wicked smile spread on Draco’s face. “I might have a few propositions.” 

Harry smiled, blinking slowly, met by Draco narrowing his eyes.

“I think I shall satisfy my scientific curiosity.” 

“Oh?” Harry licked his lips.

Humming his confirmation, Draco wandered to the bathroom.

“Unless you have any pressing objections.”

“None.” Harry grinned.

“Oh, good.” 

There was some clattering about, and Harry waited, his stomach fluttering wildly with each passing moment.

Draco reappeared and headed toward the bed, Harry watching every movement as his breath quickened and his heart rate increased. 

“I’m curious,” Draco said, predatory gleam in his eyes.

“About?”

“The apparent sensitivity of your prostate.” 

Harry’s skin prickled, and his arsehole twitched. A rush of heat flooded his cheeks, and throat dry, Harry watched as Draco sank to the bed, his long limbs moving gracefully. Draco braced himself above Harry, just to his side, and the desire to feel that body on top of his, to press against him and let Harry feel every contour, every inch of skin, was consuming.

Harry reached out, running his finger along Draco’s arm, across strong collarbones. Touching Draco was as pleasurable as experiencing Draco’s touch. Watching him come alive at each brush of finger and whisper of palm, appreciation of the sinew that twitched lightly, forced the careening of his thoughts to focus on one thing: the man before him, and everything his hands, mouth, and body said – the things that would never be voiced, but were there nonetheless. 

Trapped by Draco’s gaze, he shifted his hands, pulling on pale strands of hair to draw their mouths together, the anticipation like a kite sailing, finally caught in the wind and ripped into the air at breakneck speed; back and forth, his body seemed to whip, only anchored by Draco’s hold on him. Lips parted, the first intoxicating inhalation of Draco’s essence pulling Harry along until he needed to feel Draco’s tongue against his, to feel the absolute openness Harry was only willing to give to one person. 

There was a part of him that had ached to feel what he’d never known he’d been missing. It was the ease and comfort of being home, feeling like he belonged. But it wasn’t until he had tasted it, felt it, that he had been able to identify exactly what that had been missing. Draco’s hand began a slow path from his hip, touching exactly where Harry liked; and he knew that those hands would never touch another person the same way. Tongue eager to touch Draco’s, Harry finally extended his, wanting nothing more than to feel the way their mouths closed around one another, to feel the way he could be consumed by a kiss. 

Harry didn’t know what exactly Draco would do. The intent to bring pleasure, reminders of everything that muscle could do, forced fantasises into Harry’s once-blank mind. They didn’t last long, though; the sensation of a warm hand distracted him. 

Opening his eyes, Harry turned his head, breaking the kiss, running his lips along Draco’s neck, feeling the light tap of Draco’s pulse against his mouth. The mark he’d left on a beautifully slanted collarbone had faded, and he wanted to put another one in its place. 

Teasing Draco’s lightly-flushed skin, Harry experienced the tingle in his lips as they barely touched Draco’s body, and pulled back on Draco’s hair so he could reach the ridge easier. It wouldn’t take much to bruise the skin, to lay his claim. 

Blood rushed in his ears as teeth pressed into skin, and he sucked, his tongue laving the captured fold. His fingers, tired, fell away from Draco’s head, but his access wasn’t denied; Draco allowed him to do whatever he wanted, so he moved his trembling arm until it was settled against Draco’s lower back, intentionally not moving further. 

Satisfied that he had made enough of an impression, Harry released his hold, and admired the vivid circle of purpling skin. He smiled, and looked at Draco, completely unrepentant. Draco didn’t appear to object, his expression, if it were possible, even more predatory than it had been at the outset. 

His mouth, hungry, moved along Harry’s neck, an appreciative moan from Harry fuelling the teasing.

“Draco,” Harry moaned softly, encouragement to continue. His fingers caressed the slope of Draco’s back as his body shifted, his mouth moving lower, promising to deliver pleasure.

“Yes,” Harry hissed, watching the way that tongue moved against his chest, then down his abdomen, stopping at his cock, breath heavy against the wet head of his prick. His thumb caressed Harry’s hip, almost demanding Harry’s voice – delivered without hesitation. “Fuck.” It was long, and breathy. Seemingly having made up his mind about something, Draco’s mouth was on Harry’s hip. His tongue and teeth were gentle, calling what blood wasn’t sitting in his heavy cock to the surface, leaving a mark of his own. 

Harry reached out and moved Draco’s fringe aside. The tip of his nose was pressed flat against Harry’s body, and Harry watched; he liked the way his body tingled. His body burned, his mind the contents of a cauldron, swirling as the ingredients of _his_ perfection were added together.

There was no doubt that Draco wanted him as much as he wanted Draco. Harry’s mouth watered just to kiss him, to feel their mouths together. As if Draco had read his mind, his hip was released and their lips were together again, tongues slick, just an imitation of their cocks moving against each other. The rhythm created by their bodies as they touched, breathed.

He knew, could feel, that it was desperation, but Harry didn’t care. All he knew was that Draco was the only person he ever wanted to touch him again, that Draco was everything to him, and he would admit it freely, give Draco that sort of power over him, because he trusted him in a way he’d never trusted another person – and he knew he was the only one Draco wanted to see and touch this way. 

Draco pulled away, but that because their mouths weren’t together, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t follow through on the promise his mouth and body had made the moment they’d kissed. 

“What?” Harry asked, his chest rising and falling heavily. A slow smile, moved across Draco’s lips. It was an expression that he could let himself get lost in.

No answer, at least not in words, followed the question. Draco helped Harry move higher up on the pillows, his hands never leaving Harry’s body as he was shifted. Seemingly satisfied, Draco moved down Harry’s body again. He kissed the mark he’d left on Harry’s right hip, mouth open, breath hot against Harry’s skin, then parted Harry’s thighs, fingers offering light caresses. 

Harry only hoped he knew what was coming. Settling between his legs, Draco’s head dipped and his tongue ran the length of Harry’s cock. Harry was able to speak a throaty ‘yes’ that trailed off when he had to inhale, the fire that had begun the moment their lips had met now licking his skin.

His heartbeat stuttered when Draco’s mouth finally took his whole cock, wet and so warm that he might actually have been burning. His eyes closed, the thrill of such concentration directed at his body so heavy Harry thought he might break from the pressure. Knowing that Draco _liked_ swirling his tongue around the head of Harry’s cock, taking him deep, was enough to make him not care if he did fall apart; if he did, he knew Draco would put him back together. There was no doubt about that.

And just when he thought the world might fall away, he felt a gentle, slick caress against his arse that made his eyes snap open. He groaned softly as he was opened slowly, a finger easing inside him, the attention to his cock never waning. It was odd, just as it had been when Draco had sounded him, but as he grew used to the way his muscles contracted and stretched, the way it felt when Draco’s finger brushed that spot within him, the desire for more overrode any discomfort.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry said, his voice barely audible as he felt the slow movement within him. His body exploded with pleasure, brief and teasing; and completely at a loss, he begged, wanting, needing more, “Draco, please.” _I want to feel everything._

Harry’s sense of reality disappeared, and light, coruscating and physical, burst and dimmed behind his eyelids as his throat went dry. His fingers twined into Draco’s hair, the pleasure ripping through him. He wanted to get more in him, he wanted Draco to go deeper, and somewhere in the madness, he was given exactly what his voice had lost the ability to ask for. _Again. Fuck._

Draco’s fingers pressed into him, a slow glide that wasn’t enough, that held him suspended on the edge. Every time he thought Draco would let him fall, the rhythm changed. Tender, even thrusts replaced the faster, less smooth ones, and the rising and falling of Draco’s mouth around his cock slowed. But he didn’t want tender. Part of him wanted rough jerks to accompany the thrusts, needed to feel how much Draco wanted him. There was a gentle touch of breath that ghosted across Harry’s abdomen, and he was aware of Draco’s breathing, how it had quickened, and the sound of slick fingers moving inside him, the sound of Draco’s mouth and throat as they surrounded him. 

Inhaling sharply, Harry tightened his shaky hold. “Please,” he rasped, his ability to think no longer compromised. “Draco…”

Movement began again, and finally he was given release. The sensations, once started, were like an avalanche, impossible to stop, rushing over his skin and through him. His entire body trembled as control slipped away, his back arching, as Draco swallowed his come. He’d never felt anything so brilliant, never felt like anything had reduced him to nerve endings registering heat that spread along his skin in an inferno. But there he was, mindless, a creature of desire who could only feel the way Draco’s fingers shifted inside him and the way his mouth and tongue danced along his length.

He loved every second of feeling like living didn’t matter. All too soon, Draco moved his hand, his mouth slowly pulling away from Harry’s spent cock, and it was all he could do to breathe. The scent of his ejaculate and lubrication, his arse, all remained in the air, and he inhaled deeply, feeling Draco’s body settle beside him, fingers – those that had supported his cock – caressing his face. The scent wasn’t horrible, more fascinating to Harry.

He leaned forward and kissed Draco, the taste of his come thick against his tongue as it wrapped around Draco’s, their lips brushing against one another greedily.

Taking hold of Draco’s cock, his hand was joined, and he tossed Draco off, their mouths only breaking for more than a heartbeat when Draco’s come flooded over their hands, a shudder running through him. They lay for a few moments, still catching their breath, and Harry, his mind now clear, realised he wanted to feel Draco’s body the same way. If he couldn’t fuck him, he wanted at least to be able to know what Draco’s body felt like inside, even if his prostate, as Luna had said, wasn’t sensitive. Deciding it best to wait, Harry tucked away the desire, and would ask later. 

Freshly bathed and lying in bed – on more fresh bedding – there was a satisfying reminder in his arse that Draco’s fingers had been there, and he smiled, closing his eyes slightly. He ran languorous fingers across Draco’s abdomen, his thumb stroking a rhythm that matched the beat of his heart. There was a faint musky scent to the bedroom, pleasant, the scent of his body and Draco’s, and while he was content, with each swipe of his finger across Draco’s skin, he realised something wasn’t right. Not in a bad way, just one he wasn’t used to, and he felt restless. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before then, and why it was suddenly starting to bother him. Whether it was the lack of magic, being able to walk, or just having freedom, he didn’t know. He liked being at the Manor with Draco, liked spending time with him and Narcissa and Mrs Prout, but there was something missing, and it seemed that once his doubt had melted away, the lack – like other small things – had become prominent. He’d never really been one to go out a lot, as Ginny had often complained; he’d tried to avoid anything that brought more attention to him than was necessary. It was partially his own decision, partially not, but his debility had left him without much to do outside four walls and the garden he had off his rooms. Longingly he thought about the many things that he _had_ enjoyed, things he’d done for himself, before everything had gone to hell.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began. “I’d like to go out and do something. I’m not used to—” he made a vague gesture, attempting to think of the appropriate word to express his restlessness, “sitting around and not doing anything. And I miss Quidditch, and Firewhisky.”

Harry had made a point of attending Quidditch matches whenever he had the time, as it was something he’d enjoyed ever since he’d been in the wizarding world, and in his boredom and general feelings of being caged, he found he really was missing it quite a bit. 

He looked up at Draco, noting that he appeared to be considering Harry’s words.

“It probably wouldn’t hurt you to get roaring drunk. We’ve got a rather good single malt in one of the cellars.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“And I could probably get someone to...” he groped for the appropriate word, “...record a Quidditch match. Not the same as being there, of course, but better than nothing.” 

Harry was silent for a long time, until he realised Draco was waiting for a reply. “Um, yeah, that’d be brilliant.”

Draco reached for the bell to call for Mrs Prout.

“I don’t want to get pissed, I just miss the flavour.”

“We don’t _have_ to get pissed.” 

Hearing ‘we’, and knowing that Draco was going to join him, Harry smiled.

“But a drink is still permissible. The worst that will happen is you’ll get ideas above your station again.” 

Genuinely amused by Draco’s choice of words, he laughed. When he’d settled, with a grin, he said, “Good thing I can snog you properly, then.”

Draco smiled faintly in return. “We can watch that film about the drunkard.” 

“Drunkard? What’s Hermione brought now?”

“Something about a man with carpentry accessories. They’re permanently drunk, and the uncle is gay.”

“Alright,” he said, none the wiser but unconcerned. 

Mrs Prout answered and Draco requested that she bring a very specific bottle of Scotch, but Harry was too embarrassed to look up or follow his instructions. When Mrs Prout left, he realised Draco hadn’t said anything to first part of his question. He frowned for a moment, debating whether to bring it up or not, but he supposed he could ask specifically, not adding anything else to the question. 

“So what about getting out of the house, then?” Harry asked, looking at Draco.

Draco blinked in surprise. “What _about_ it?”

“I’d like to go out, do something outside of the rooms and the garden.”

A pale eyebrow rose a fraction. “Such as?”

“I don’t know. Just do something out - maybe have dinner or something.”

Draco frowned slightly. “I... have every sympathy with your feeling somewhat caged, but I would be dishonest if I didn’t express certain... reservations.”

Harry supposed he should have expected that. “I’d just like us to do something else. Different. That’s all. It’s not about not liking being here. Like you said, a bit caged. I’ve been out once since all of this started, really - and I’ve never really wanted to go out all the time, but once in a while, yeah. I do. I just thought since we had the Aurors… and if we went somewhere Muggle...”

Draco looked undecided. “There would be considerable risks entailed. I can’t control the environment outside the Manor. I can’t sustain a mobile quarantine bubble for longer than a few minutes, and it takes a thorough grasp of some fairly abstruse tenets of magical theory to master the spell at all. No two people cast it the same way, you see. Granger could probably learn it, but in her condition, it’d be too much of a drain.” 

Harry sighed. Draco was being depressingly reasonable. “And what about the Aurors? Aren’t they here to protect me?”

Draco appeared troubled. “Yes. All of them.” 

“And you,” Harry added.

Draco frowned again.

“What about your mum? Would she want to go?” 

His mouth quirked slightly at that. “She could probably be prevailed upon. But that doesn’t make the inherent risk any less. Getting out of the grounds alone...” he trailed off, shaking his head slightly.

“Dawlish might have some ideas. He’s a really good bloke in the field,” Harry said almost wistfully. “Just think about it, yeah?” Harry had just given absolute control over the decision to Draco, and he wouldn’t ask for anything more. He knew logistically it could be complicated, but Draco was clever, and Dawlish was, too. 

Mrs Prout returned, and Draco helped Harry sit up in bed, then started the film, each of them with a glass of a rich Scotch that was smooth to the taste, and left a slight burn in Harry’s chest after it settled in his stomach. After his second glass, Harry was past the point of being able to keep track of the film, which had nothing to do with carpentry but did feature a character called ‘Withnail’, which at least explained the source of Draco’s misunderstanding. With Draco’s help, he relieved his bladder, his hands even less co-operative with the spirits running through him, but Draco didn’t seem to mind, and to show his appreciation, he grabbed hold of that pale hair and pulled him in, his tongue moving lazily against Draco’s. He released his hold and settled against the pillows and tried to keep his attention on the film, but he eventually fell asleep, waking slightly when the room darkened and he felt Draco’s arms around him. He mumbled “Good night,” and felt a soft kiss against his neck, smiling unconsciously as he went back to sleep.

****

~*~*~*~

Harry’s morning passed uneventfully. He’d had breakfast with Draco, giving him a kiss before he’d left for the study, and had watched another Carry On with Mrs Prout. She’d written a letter to Professor McGonagall for him, and helped him sign his name to it. They had retired to the garden shortly after that, enjoying the warm summer sun and the simple beauty of the flowers and their fragrance. He asked about her children, learning a bit about them since they would be meeting soon, and when the heat grew too much for him, they returned to the house; it was then that he noticed a box beside his, one that he wasn’t familiar with, on the chest of drawers. Curious, he approached it and opened the lid, peering inside. It was obviously Draco’s, and knew immediately, whether he could say _what_ the meaning of each item was or not, that it was just the same as Harry’s box beside it. The placement made an odd sort of warmth spread through Harry, and he was happy to see that Draco was making an active effort to make the room, however temporary, his, too. 

The first thing that caught Harry’s attention was the Hogwarts scarf. He ran his fingers across it, memories both good and bad surfacing, and a smile, one that chased the dragons of the past away, spread on his face. He lifted the scarf and looked at the remaining contents: an oddly-shaped lump of glass, a scrap of lace, an ivory comb, a crumpled piece of paper, three blackened twigs, and what he immediately recognised as the lock of hair that Luna had given Draco after his hair had been cut. He took note of every detail, down to the colour of the lace and the shape of the glass, hoping that one day he might piece together how those things were important to Draco, apart from the more obvious. But even then, Harry was aware that things often weren’t what they seemed with Draco at all, so he might never know their importance. 

Harry closed the lid of the box, feeling like Draco had just shared something immensely private with him. Luna called for lunch, leaving shortly after the meal to return to the Ministry, and thinking that watching something would be a good way to pass the time while Draco worked, Harry moved to the bedside table to get the remote control, taking note of photos he’d had hanging along the stairwell at Hightrees that were now spread out in place of artwork or some decorative vase. He smiled, and put a DVD in the player.

The film had just started when the bedroom door opened and Draco strode in. Harry paused the DVD.

“How are you feeling?” Draco asked coolly.

Harry smiled. “Fine.”

“Good. I’m going to put you to bed.”

Harry looked at Draco, slightly confused, but not minded to question the strange statement. “Alright.” Then, feeling playful, asked, “Are you coming, too?” 

“No. You need to be rested if you're not going to be completely exhausted when we get back tonight.” 

“Back tonight?” Harry asked. Realisation dawned. “We’re going out, then?”

“I thought you wanted to go out.”

“Yeah,” Harry affirmed, grinning. That Draco was making it happen meant more to Harry than he could express.

Nodding, Draco assisted Harry into bed, and before he could pull away, Harry took his wrist, as Draco stilled for a moment, and Harry placed a kiss in the centre of his palm. Those long fingers twitched with the desire to touch, but Harry could tell from his bearing that no matter how much Draco might want to join him, it wasn’t going to happen. He contented himself with pulling Draco in for a proper kiss and a breathy ‘thanks’ as he settled against the bed, his eyes closing. Draco turned off the TV, and the door closed softly behind him.

Hours later, when Harry woke to Draco’s voice, hand on Harry’s shoulder, he smiled. Excitement had kept his thoughts too busy to sleep immediately, but he’d at least rested the entire time, not giving in to the temptation to turn on the TV back on. Now he was pulling a polo shirt over his head, after using the toilet, and had just been settled in his chair wearing a comfortable pair of jeans as Draco rolled socks onto his feet and put his trainers on him. Laces knotted, Harry moved to the mirror to have a look at himself, and ran his fingers through his messy hair, that even though shorter, still looked little better than a bird’s nest. He tried to flatten it a little, to no avail, and still found, reflected in the mirror, Draco’s approving expression. 

His clothes still fitted remarkably well, despite his having been only on liquids for at least a week. Surprised, he looked at Draco and asked, “Why didn't I lose more weight when I wasn't eating? I always used to lose loads over the summer.”

Draco’s lips thinned in evidence of his displeasure at the Dursleys, but he answered evenly enough. “Because Mrs Prout has been fortifying your food and adding prescribed supplements to keep your nutrient intake up.” 

Harry smiled. “Thank you.” Then, curious, asked, “Who else is coming?”

“Granger, Weasley, Dawlish and my mother.”

“You're allowing Ron to come after he barged in on us?”

“He's on duty, and he's partnered with Dawlish. I trust Dawlish more than the others, and Weasley has more to lose if he allows you to be hurt while he's guarding you than any of the others has,” Draco said. “His entire family is already being held responsible for his sister's crime. Allowing harm to come to you while under his protection would probably see them spat upon in the street. As Granger and Dawlish will make him aware.”

“So what are you taking me to do?”

“What you said you wanted to do. A meal, and a film.”

A brilliant smile ripped across Harry’s face, and he thanked Draco again, then ran the backs of his fingers across Draco’s hand. A smile flickered across Draco’s face, one that Harry quite appreciated, and he moved toward the door, Harry following behind. 

Outside, there were nine identical MPVs lined up along the drive, and one at the bottom of the stairs, the door open and ramp already extended. The drivers, Harry noticed, all appeared quite dopey and were smiling. There were also heavy charms on the other nine, which made them appear to have the party already seated. He laughed lightly, and Draco looked at him, his expression obviously asking if Harry was ready. He nodded, and Draco lifted him and carried him down to the waiting conveyance, where Narcissa and Hermione were already seated, in the middle of a conversation that Harry had no interest in. 

Once Draco got Harry settled comfortably, he went back to the house to get Harry’s chair, and they were on their way. Harry shouldn’t have been surprised by Draco’s planning, but he was – it was obvious there had been quite a bit of thought put into the outing. He learned from snatches of Narcissa and Hermione’s conversation that Ron and Dawlish had Apparated ahead, and they were going to Swindon. Just from that, he determined he could have a nap before they arrived, so he tipped his head back, avoiding touching Draco unnecessarily since it wasn’t just them any more, and fell asleep almost immediately. 

When he woke, at Draco’s voice – firm and insistent – he was aware that his head was resting on Draco’s shoulder, and he snapped, as much as he was able, awake, mumbling an apology. Once he was properly alert, Draco helped him into his chair. Dawlish – looking quite odd in his Muggle clothes – and Ron were already waiting for them, and they left the car, Harry last with Draco and Narcissa standing close by. It was then that Harry noticed Narcissa was wearing Muggle clothes, too, and looking nothing less than regal, her shapely calves and slim ankles on display beneath the knee-length hem of her dress. He found himself oddly fascinated by seeing her legs, and understood for the first time the appeal behind keeping flesh covered; one was more able to appreciate what lay beneath the fabric when it wasn’t always on display. Heat spread up his cheeks as he realised he wouldn’t mind seeing Draco in full winter robes and watching as each layer was peeled away, revealing his body for Harry’s appreciation. He had, he recalled, always liked watching Draco undress, when he’d had the opportunity to see it. There was always an underlying sense of anticipation that accompanied seeing his naked body, now that it was his completely to touch and admire.

Flanked by Narcissa and Draco, Harry followed Dawlish, with Ron and Hermione behind them. There was a large patio in front, and as they entered, Harry took note of the lights, bright and reflecting off the wooden floor, much like any other decent chain pub; Narcissa was overdressed, though, compared to Harry and Draco in jeans and polo shirts, and Ron and Dawlish in their jeans and sweatshirts. Hermione, Harry lamented, looked horribly dowdy and plain next to Narcissa. Though, he supposed, comfort overruled glamour during pregnancy. 

People gave them odd looks as they made through the pub; Harry supposed he couldn’t blame them. The way everyone was crowded around him, it was as though he was some sort of Muggle celebrity. He shook his head, wishing they’d stop looking. Stares had been expected, peoples’ curiosity apparently piqued by his strange human shield, but it didn’t make it any more comfortable for him.

Draco selected a quiet corner, where there were fewest patrons, most of the tables surrounding them empty. Narcissa and Draco took the seats on each side of Harry, and Ron and Dawlish were on the outside, alert. 

After everyone had selected their drinks, Draco excused himself for a moment and made his way to the bar. Harry watched his arse as he went, and then watched him have a quiet word with the manager. The exchange of notes wasn’t lost on him, and soon after Draco had returned with their drinks and taken his seat again, the staff began removing chairs from the surrounding tables, giving them the corner all to themselves.

Harry spent quite a bit of time reading the menu, trying to decide what he wanted. He had always eaten the same things when going out. That had always been most comfortable for him; being grateful that he actually had food had probably always dictated his laissez faire attitude toward it.

“Potter, do make a decision,” Draco said, interrupting his lazy perusal of the menu. “If you don't like it, we can always order you something else. Or you can have mine. It won't be up to Mrs Prout's standard, but it should be tolerable enough, and there's nothing on this menu that sounds wholly repellent.”

Harry requested one of the specials, since everyone else seemed to have made up their minds.

With Harry no longer holding up their meals, Draco turned to Dawlish and said, “Dawlish, go to the bar and order the food, would you?”

Dawlish obliged.

They talked as they waited for their food to arrive, exchanging pleasantries, and the Aurors giving Harry updates about things going on in the wizarding world. Ron mentioned something about a team of Aurors who recently had had to be taken to St Mungo’s for treatment, and apparently fixated by the idea, with a mouth full of some starter, said, “I don’t know how you do it, mate – all that poking and prodding. I’m tired of it just after a few days.”

Harry immediately noticed Draco’s expression solidify and turned to him. “Draco, tell me you are _not_ doing something illegal.”

“Of course I'm not. He volunteered. I’m not paying him,” Draco said. “And before you ask, it was Weasley who cast _Malleus Mentis_ on him, not me.”

All of the blood drained from Harry’s face.

Ron nodded merrily in response. “Gave me a hell of a headache, that did,” Ron said. “Bill cast that other one, too. That was weird. Felt like my head was full of fog. Bit like when Fleur turns on the charm, you know.”

“Now you know how I felt for years,” Harry muttered, taking a long draught from his pint.

“The point of all this, of course,” Draco intervened, as Ron’s expression clouded, “is that the counter-curse _seems_ to work.” 

Turning a hopeful eye to Draco, Harry asked, “H-how long?”

”Until we can be sure? Another seventy two hours. And in the meantime, I shall continue...” Draco grimaced, “…poking and prodding Weasley. This one,” he specified, looking at Ron.

“That was stupid, Ron,” Harry said, shaking his head. He was genuinely appreciative of Ron’s apparent desire to help, but he really didn’t want to be responsible for something happening to Ron because of the curses. 

“You're my best mate. You'd have done it for me,” Ron said. “I did talk to ’Mione first. From her place between him and Dawlish, Hermione nodded.

“That's not the point. I don't have a pregnant wife!” Harry ran a nervous hand through his hair.

“You also don't have a best friend under a curse nobody knows how to cure yet!” Ron was saying. “Look, I trust Malfoy, okay? I don't _like_ him, but I trust him.” At Harry’s side, Draco snorted audibly. Ron didn’t flicker. “He said he reckoned it'd be okay, and I reckon he knows what he's talking about. So I did it. And I'm fine. Okay? No harm.” 

Harry shook his head in disbelief, casting a glance toward Draco. “I appreciate it, Ron,” Harry said earnestly. “If something had happened…” He shook his head; that didn’t bear thinking about. “Thank you. Both of you.” Harry was sincerely grateful for their efforts. It meant that an end was genuinely in sight; being able to walk again – he hoped – use magic again, fly… those were all things he was looking forward to, and not the least the ability to reciprocate his affections for Draco without assistance.

Ron grinned broadly, and Harry noted the expression of approval on Draco’s face. Harry drank the rest of his pint as a distraction, worried that something negative would happen to Ron, but there was nothing be could do; the spells had already been cast. It was pointless to worry over it when any possible damage had already been done. Draco seemed to have everything in order already, and there was nothing he could say against Ron volunteering to be a test subject, particularly since Ron seemed fully aware of the consequences. The conversations turned again, and Harry found himself listening, rather than really talking. He didn’t have much to say, and found he didn’t mind listening as Narcissa engaged Hermione and Draco spoke to Dawlish. Before long, their conversations dealing with anything relating to the wizarding world ended as their waitress arrived.

Sporadic chat, some which included him, some which he had no interest in, continued while they ate. He was brought another pint, already feeling the effects of the first. His tolerance had never been so low. Harry was quite embarrassed by Ron’s manners, though. They didn’t seem to have improved since school in the least, and he was busy talking with his mouth full of whatever he had ordered. Hermione rolled her eyes, and Narcissa was diplomatically ignoring him, but Draco, Harry could tell, itched to say something; he didn’t, though.

Forgetting himself, he reached under the table and stroked Draco’s leg in thanks, only to have his hand brushed away as though it was nothing more than crumbs in his lap. As irritated by his own carelessness as he was stung by Draco’s reaction, Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably and took another drink. 

“I need the loo,” he said abruptly, as much as a distraction as a means to get his bearings, and Draco rose to go with him without question. They found their way to the disabled toilet, Draco walking by his side, visibly alert. Harry was grateful that it was separate, ensuring a bit more privacy. 

As Draco was helping him settle back in his chair again, Harry said, “I’m sorry. What am I allowed to do and not do? I don’t want to… mess up.”

Draco appeared startled. “There isn't actually list of rules. Just... not _intimate_ contact. That's all. It's improper. And it’s private.”

“How do you define intimate?”

Draco grimaced slightly. “Not the sort of touching you'd have with a lover. Nothing you wouldn't bestow on an acquaintance.” He regarded Harry for a moment, then added, “That is, an acquaintance you're very concerned about not upsetting, who has a history of making allegations about sexual misconduct in others.” 

“Nothing, then. Right. I'll remember that.” Harry was trying to understand the propriety thing as best he could. If he got it in mind that _everything_ in public was out of bounds, he felt that he would hopefully be able to avoid making any mistakes. He thought after Mrs Prout’s kind interpretation of Draco’s quote about valour he’d be able to handle it, but he supposed after getting used to _not_ hiding anything at home, he’d not given his behaviour elsewhere as much thought as he should. That, or he was a bit more pissed than he’d thought.

Draco’s mouth screwed up at that slightly, but Harry didn’t understand why. Shaking his head, Draco asked, “You never saw my mother and father interact in public, did you?” 

“No. I’ve rarely seen other lovers, couples – whatever. No parents, remember?”

“I can't think offhand of any couples you might have seen. It's...” he paused a moment, “…I'll show you. As we go along. Watch the way my mother touches people, too.”

“I _am_ trying.”

Draco smiled. “I know. I do appreciate it. I'm just... not that open. Not out here. But we're also supposed to be keeping this from the rest of the world, anyway, aren't we? Something about me not losing my licence and getting shipped off to Azkaban while St Mungo's takes over your care and tries to find out the extent to which I've abused you.” 

“You haven't abused me.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Dawlish knows if Ron knows – you can be sure of that. Just got to get used to it a bit. I know you aren't open.”

“Weasley is loyal enough to you that he'd look the other way if you strangled Shacklebolt in front of him, and Dawlish... I believe can be trusted.” Harry tucked that away for future consideration.

Curious, Harry asked, “Why are you okay with Eleanor seeing you starkers, but you're so prudish in public?” 

A pale eyebrow rose. “I object to being described as 'prudish'. It's correct manners, Potter, and propriety. 'Prudish' would insist that my mother wore a full-length skirt and Granger covered her cleavage decently.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I mean... just... propriety. What's proper...? Okay, so why are you okay with Eleanor seeing you starkers, but in public...?” Harry shook his head, trying to make sense of the whole thing.

“It's different places. You don't behave the same way at work as you do at home, do you? At home, there's nobody to judge. Nobody's going to perceive a weakness and take advantage of it. In public, one is under observation at all times. And, in case you'd forgotten, if our relationship is discovered while you remain my patient, there will be adverse consequences.” It was obvious that Draco was trying, for Harry’s sake, to wrap words around an inchoate yet bone-deep conviction. Draco’s difficulty was understandable. Harry had struggled enough with trying to make his feelings about their relationship known, particularly in regards to his desire for Draco to be with him out of volition rather than submission. 

Confusion and a slight flare of anger accompanied Draco’s explanation: Harry hated that it appeared that Draco was under such scrutiny. He knew it shouldn’t surprise him, given the way things had gone at St Mungo’s. There would be a day, Harry hoped, when Draco wasn’t met with derision and judgement; but he also knew that he probably knew Draco better than anyone, apart from those who had not abandoned him in the aftermath of the war, or who had never judged him: like Narcissa. “I-I know that. I just...”

“It's as I said to you, though. Mrs Prout isn't remotely interested in looking at me. It doesn't bother her in any way; there was, after all, a _Mr_ Prout once. She's... wholly indifferent to it. And she's safe. She won't speak of anything she sees. She won't judge.” Draco scowled. “Unlike Weasley.” 

“He’s seen me naked loads of time at school.” Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Draco’s scowl took on an actively dangerous edge. “I know. If the Gryffindor dorms and bathrooms were anything like the Slytherin dorms and bathrooms, I _know_ he did. That does _not_ give him any right to look at you in that state of undress now,” he said. “I won't have it. I didn't do anything to him, because you clearly didn’t want me to, but I tell you this to your head: if those eyes behold anything more of your person which they ought not to behold, they will be put out forthwith.” 

Harry looked at Draco with a slightly glazed expression, a thrilling prickle running the length of his spine.

“Similarly Lovegood will lose any hand she lays upon you beyond that appropriate to common cordiality. Parkinson _knows_ that her tongue will be forfeit if she fails to keep it still on the subject of what she has observed in my home.” 

Harry licked his lips, the same confusing arousal at his protectiveness and possessiveness making his heart kick in his chest. 

“And as for those ruddy reporters—” Draco pressed his lips closed suddenly and he shook his head. “Eleanor Prout is a wholly admirable woman, whose discretion knows no bounds. She isn't interested in looking at either one of us, except possibly in terms of whether someone needs feeding up. Anyone else... well, I'd rather they looked at me than you. I'm more comfortable in my skin than you are in yours; nudity doesn't bother me, in my own home. And, besides, if they're looking at me, they can't be looking at you.” Draco eyed Harry. “I object to other people looking at you naked.” 

Harry flushed. “I’m just not used to it…” 

“Good. Don’t become so. You'd better get used to _me_ looking at you naked, though, since I plan to have you that way within a minute of getting back to our room, and keep you that way for some considerable time.” 

“I wouldn't mind that,” Harry said, grinning.

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “Just as well. Turn the power off.” Harry did as he was told, and Draco reached for his fly. “Do try not to scream.” 

Surprised, Harry held his breath as Draco lowered his zip and unbuttoned his jeans. Draco sank to the floor and positioned himself between Harry’s legs, shifting the chair’s footplates out of the way. Harry’s cock twitched at the touch, rapidly filling with arousal. 

Draco Malfoy was on his knees, in a public loo, about to suck Harry’s cock. The scent of lemon air freshener and disinfectant was thick in the air, and it was cool. Draco’s mouth was hot, his breath just a tease of what was to come. A soft groan of anticipation flowed from Harry’s lips, urging Draco’s to continue. Then the wet pressure of Draco’s tongue was against him. 

Harry knew Draco couldn’t have done this before. He didn’t have to ask. There was something completely incongruous about the scene. It was surreal in the sense of flying for the first time, or feeling magic for the first time – and all Harry could do was float along the current Draco was providing. 

He reached out, the near-white hair bunching in his grasp. “That’s… good,” he managed, his teeth clenched together tightly as he exhaled, the sensation of beer and Draco enough to make him lose control right then, no second thoughts. _Like that._

“ _Fuck_.” It was too much. Draco on his knees, his tongue wicked and completely unforgiving as it moved against his cock, his mouth so tight Harry could feel hollowed cheeks on each side of his prick, and the back of Draco’s throat. Harry could have sworn Draco was trying to swallow him whole, and the sound of his mouth moving over Harry was the taste of treacle, sweet and heavy, and so very satisfying. And as suddenly as it had all begun, it was over, the tide of pleasure finally rushing through him until all he had was the weakening grip on Draco’s hair and the sound of his heartbeat drowning everything else – including him. 

A satisfied groan followed the loss of Draco’s mouth against him, and he reluctantly released his hold. He sighed heavily, taking in the flushed cheeks and uncharacteristically messy hair, and smiled, the tension fading as quickly as it had come. As Draco re-buttoned and zipped Harry’s jeans, he pulled that messy hair, bringing their mouths together, his lips aching for Draco’s.

He reluctantly broke away, knowing they had been gone long enough, and left Draco to situate himself before they made their way back to their table. They received from strange looks from patrons; one woman stared at them with disbelief and probably disgust, Harry couldn’t tell. 

Draco, Harry noticed, seemed completely unperturbed by the stares, but he met the woman’s gaze and smiled condescendingly. “Awkward bowel movement. I'd keep out of there, if I were you.”

The woman looked scandalized and turned away quickly. When they reached the table, Ron looked at Harry with a familiar impish expression.

“That good, was it?”

“Ronald!” Hermione chided. 

He shrugged, his expression saying ‘what?’, and Harry shook his head, taking a page from Draco’s book – again, replying, “Awkward bowel movement.”

Dawlish snorted in amusement, and Narcissa, appearing unbothered, took a bite of something. One of Draco’s eyebrows rose, but there was no other discernable reaction.

“Merlin, Harry, you’re even talking like Malfoy!”

“Knock around the Manor long enough and you’ll start, too.”

Harry caught the eye rolls from both Narcissa and Draco and laughed hysterically; they were so much alike it was almost scary, only Harry knew that Narcissa had a lot more practice than Draco. But it didn’t lessen the affection he felt for both of them.

Without missing a beat, Draco looked at Ron as Harry took a drink from his pint, saying, “That idiot from the WWN tried to get through the gates _again_ this morning, Weasley. If you people don't start doing something about that, I'll wake the Spitting Rhododendrons.”

“I think the business with the projectile vomiting and double incontinence probably made the point, Malfoy,” Dawlish said, grinning.

“And the spontaneous orgasms,” Harry muttered into his pint.

Draco looked at him with affronted dignity, which was saying something since he’d just sucked Harry off on his knees in a pub lavatory, but Harry just smiled and shook his head.

“That was a fortnight ago. I don't repeat myself. Since then, I made three of them think they're lizards, two of them believe that they're being haunted by the ghost of Rita Skeeter, and all the hair of the one who tried to use Omnioculars start growing inwards.”

Harry snorted in amusement; feeling haunted by the ghost of Rita Skeeter _would_ be a scary thought, indeed. 

Draco turned to Dawlish then. “I was thinking of something to do with the sinuses for next week. Or possibly a form of halitosis.”

Dawlish shook his head. “You can't go wrong with lower gastrointestinal tract.”

“Hey!” Harry said. “Trying to eat, here!”

Both his lover and his former colleague looked at him in mild disappointment, and Harry shook his head, rolling his eyes. 

Unfazed by Harry’s apparent dislike of the conversation, Dawlish turned to Draco. “Didn't you say something about a hex that makes a bloke's balls shrink?”

“Oi! What are you two on about?” Ron said, before Draco could reply.

In unison, Draco and Dawlish replied: “Theoretical thaumaturgy.”

Ron grinned. Harry looked at him in surprise, realising that apparently Ron had been in on the hexing and jinxing the entire time. He rolled his eyes in exasperation and had a brief moment of worry for the future of Magical Law Enforcement if all it took to corrupt some of the better Aurors was a few weeks spent at Malfoy Manor and Draco’s obvious thirst for blood from anyone who even made an attempt at hurting Harry.

Aiming for a distraction, Harry asked, “What film are we going to see?”

“It's called The Da Vinci Code,” Draco said. “Apparently there are Muggles who believe that he was trying to send them messages about the Bible. Or something. It all sounded rather odd, but apparently the book is immensely popular. And the actor seems to be well-reputed.”

Hermione, apparently finally comfortable with a topic of conversation, began spouting a long string of facts about the film, the actors, and anything else she could think of, and Harry, not all that interested in what she was saying, tuned out. He took another sip of his beer. Narcissa nobly took up the conversation with Hermione, and Ron and Dawlish engaged in lighter topics, their eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. They weren’t much for conversation, but Harry didn’t care. He was too distracted by the obvious provocative intent of Draco’s eating, and flushed slightly, taking a drink to wet his suddenly-dry throat.

If Harry could have moved his legs, he would have kicked Draco. That they’d just had a conversation about propriety, and he was being an intentional tease got under Harry’s skin more than he wanted to acknowledge. He supposed that none of the others at the table were paying any attention to Draco, though. Narcissa and Hermione were chatting away nicely, and Ron and Dawlish appeared to be so alert that Draco’s mouth was the last thing they were interested in looking at. Harry, on the other hand, had become fascinated with Draco’s mouth and all of the pleasure it gave, even in speaking, and he was definitely interested in watching it. 

Somehow he had missed Draco picking up a cherry, the only evidence of its previous existence being the knotted stem that he placed on his plate beside the stone, a look of satisfaction clearly visible to Harry’s educated eye.

“Stop,” Harry said under his breath. He never thought he’d see the day when _he_ would ask that, but he was only human, and knowing what that tongue could do, it aroused definite interest, regardless of the fact that Draco had just expertly tended to him. 

Harry rolled his eyes at the innocent expression on Draco’s face and scoffed slightly in amusement. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“It’s a very pleasant meal.”

Harry shook his head and took a sip from his beer. “Thank you.”

“I have no idea what that’s about, but I’m sure it’s my pleasure. It generally is.” Draco eyed the fruit garnishing his cheesecake again.

Red crept up Harry’s cheeks. _Nothing. Everything. For being here. For putting up with my friends. For being with me._ His face grew darker as Draco took the other pair of cherries, and Harry bit his lip, his fingers twitching with the desire to touch Draco, and he watched as that pink tongue ran along Draco’s bottom lip. He closed his eyes, an image of sucking Draco off under the dining table with the Invisibility Cloak over him like a stop-motion film. 

Since everyone else seemed engaged, he lowered his voice and said, “I wonder what dinner would be like with the Invisibility Cloak.”

“Dull, I should imagine. They're not usually terribly interesting conversationalists.”

Harry huffed at Draco’s deflection of his attempted flirtation, noticing the smirk that lightened his features. 

Harry took another sip of his beer and tried to have a few more bites of food, but he was getting full already and didn’t want to be uncomfortable through the whole film.

“Not too much of that, Potter, or you'll be in the loo all night.”

“I didn't realise that would be a problem,” he responded playfully.

Draco shook his head. “Just don’t complain to me when you don’t understand the film.”

“I won’t.” Harry grinned.

Draco shrugged. Knowing that he’d better change the direction of their conversation before they ended up in the loo again, Harry said, “I want to see Teddy soon.”

“As you will. I'll ask my mother to contact Aunt Andromeda.”

“Teddy would like the garden, I think. We could have lunch out there.”

“Very probably. I shall repair that doll's arm, if he's still carrying it.”

Flushing, Harry said, “Please don’t. I hate that bloody thing.”

“And I hate to see it with a floppy arm.”

“I wish he'd stop carrying it everywhere. It's… weird.”

Draco shrugged. “I doubt he particularly associates it with the Boy Who Lived.”

“No, probably not,” Harry agreed. “He wants a Draco to go with it, remember?” He rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I can just see the toy manufacturers falling over themselves to snap up the rights to that one. The Death Eater to complete the set.”

Shaking his head in irritation, Harry’s voice rose a fraction as he replied, “That’s not what I meant. You know that.” Pinpointing why it got to him so quickly was hard, but Harry reckoned it was the fact that Draco always seemed to hark back to being a former Death Eater – like that was all the world would _ever_ see him as, and he supposed that made sense, but Harry didn’t like it. It was just like his statement in the loo about being judged and observed, being picked apart for weakness.

Draco shrugged again, and Harry, both full and irritated said, “I’m finished.” His fork _clinked_ against his plate slightly, but no one seemed to notice. Harry did catch the swift glance from Draco and shook his head slightly. His gaze fixed on his plate, he tried to think of ways to make things better, but he knew it was futile; he couldn’t change the way people viewed Draco, no more than he could change the way people viewed him. 

“He’s an engaging child,” Draco said, interrupting Harry’s thoughts.

Harry’s head snapped toward Draco. “What?”

“My cousin. Your godson.”

“Oh, um, yeah,” he replied, trying to get his bearings. “Clever. Gets into mischief like his dad, though. Or what I know of Lupin, anyway.”

“I thought he inherited that from his mother. Not that I knew her all that well.”

“Tonks? She had a quick temper. And I didn't know her all that well, either. I only got to know Lupin a bit when he taught me to Summon a Patronus in the third year. Since the Dementors… you know.”

Draco nodded tightly.

The comment about Teddy had just opened the door to a conversation Harry had been wanting to have, so seeing his opportunity, he asked, “Do you want kids?”

Draco shrugged. Harry was starting to notice he did that a lot. “It isn’t a question of ‘want’. I shall have to sire an heir in due course.”

“Your mum said she didn’t think you would,” Harry said, looking at Draco.

“Did she?” he asked, interest apparently piqued.

Harry flushed, remembering he’d learned that from Narcissa when he was still trying to learn how best to break down Draco’s defences. “Yeah. I mean, she seemed like she wanted you to, but… she didn't think you'd really – what did she say? – oblige her by settling down with a nice girl, I think.”

Draco snorted. “I don’t have to settle down with a conformable little wife to do that. Surrogacy is perfectly acceptable.”

“So you wouldn’t get married, then? Just have an heir?” _Do I really want to know the answer to that? What if…? Just because_ I _want that, I can’t expect him to._

“I just told you that I have no need for a wife. I shall arrange a suitable surrogate in due course, and my obligations to the bloodline will be satisfied.” Draco glared at him for a moment. “I don't _want_ a wife.”

Nervous that Draco hadn’t understood his question, Harry tried, “H-husband, then?” He didn’t know why Draco was glaring at him; all Harry had done was seek clarification, but he appeared either to dislike the notion of marriage entirely, or to have taken Harry’s statement as an indication that Draco _should_ marry a witch. Which wasn’t what Harry had meant. 

Draco blinked. “If that's a proposal, Potter, your sense of occasion leaves a great deal to be desired.”

Harry blinked, too; he hadn’t expected that response. In fact, he hadn’t intended to bring up marriage at all, but Draco’s having associated the question specifically to them almost made him wonder if Draco had been contemplating it. Harry knew what he wanted, but he and Draco hadn’t discussed anything apart from sharing a room, Harry having an indefinite place at the Manor, and sex… To Harry, all of those things were just the starting point of something more permanent. But he refused to make any assumptions regarding Draco’s ideas – for all he knew, Draco didn’t want anything to do with marriage and families and all of the complications Harry had unknowing added to his life. The firm assurance that Draco hadn’t considered their relationship to be temporary didn’t necessarily mean that they would be lifelong or _that_ serious, either. Maybe Draco _did_ want that… Unfortunately, he was quite flustered by the comment, and took a breath, his words unsteady as he replied, “N-no. You said you didn't want a wife, so I was curious if you— Bill told me wizards could marry, so I…” He stopped, unable to continue that comment. Everything seemed to have shifted with that one statement, and whether it had been in seriousness or not, it definitely made Harry question what Draco’s response would been if he _had_ said it was a proposal. Needing a distraction, he took a long drink from his pint.

“So you decided to take another step on the road to getting sufficiently sozzled that you'll be asleep before the trailers start?” The attempted levity was not lost on Harry. But he also recognised it for the distraction it was; Draco didn’t want to talk about it. If Harry had learned _anything_ about Draco, it was that he avoided the topics that were more or less emotionally driven and he felt some obscure need to brood about before he was prepared to continue a discussion. Either way Harry looked at it, though, he knew he had to tread carefully. What he wanted – family, children, stability – might not be what Draco wanted. Love didn’t guarantee any of those things anyway, as he had already seen with Ginny, but he also knew that what he had with Draco was completely different – wasn’t even in the same book and didn’t even belong on the same shelf with the depth of what he felt for Draco. 

_For as long as there is…_ ran across his thoughts. Draco had said that. He remembered it, but Harry’s biggest worry was that he was once again misinterpreting or misunderstanding what Draco was really saying. 

“I wasn't sure if you would want that, anyway,” Harry said, really wishing he could be alone to think, or get Ron alone… something. He’d never been much of a thinker before Draco, but he had had to become one in order to unravel some of his meanings.

Draco shrugged, his gaze shifting to the table. “I’ve got everything I want.”

Flushing, Harry said, “Me, too.”

Only a brief nod accompanied his statement, no other signs of Draco’s having heard following, and he quickly engaged Dawlish in conversation about something. 

Harry really needed some air. He felt like the room was too small, back on the uneven ground of uncertainty in his relationship with Draco. He exhaled after finishing his beer, and looked up. “I need some air,” he said, his voice as his usual volume. “Ron?”

Laying her hand on his forearm to introduce herself to his notice, Narcissa said, “What a marvellous notion. It's rather stifling in here; I trust you won't object to my accompanying you, Harry?” 

“N-no,” he replied. 

“You’ll be alright?” Ron asked Hermione, and she nodded with a wan smile. Harry wondered if Ron could see it. “We’ll just be a minute.” Ron kissed her cheek before standing, and Narcissa followed suit, each of them flanking Harry as they made their way into the humid summer air. 

“Everything alright, mate?” Ron asked once they were outside.

“Yeah. Fine. More people than I'm used to, you know?”

Narcissa smiled sweetly. “Is that a Bentley?” she wondered aloud, wandering toward an Audi. Harry could have kissed her for that.

“Alright, what the hell’s going on?” Ron demanded once she was out of earshot.

Trying to explain to Ron what the ‘problem’ was, wasn’t as easy as Harry thought it should be. His own thoughts were so tangled that he wondered if Devil’s Snare had the ability to get into the mind. He needed a Lumos spell like breath in that moment, a means to unravel the knotty mess his mouth had created by asking such an unintentionally leading question.

Ron stood scratching his neck, his confusion at Harry’s dilemma clear. “I don't get what the problem is. Why didn't you say it _was_ a proposal? It might as well have been.”

Startled, Harry looked at Ron. His matter-of-fact statement was like a bucket of cold water. If Ron could see it, then that meant everyone else could, too. “I don't know if he wants that, and I don't want to say I do. It's confusing,” Harry said, hoping that explained it. “We don't have to get married, do we? I mean, I think I'd want that but...” He paused. “I know he cares – loves me – and all that… I don’t know what to do.”

“That's got to be a first. You tried asking him if he'd want to be married?” Ron asked.

“If I suggest in any way that I do, he'd do it because it made me happy.” Harry sighed. “He just said he didn't want a wife - and I told you, when I asked if he wanted a husband instead, he asked if that was a proposal.”

Ron scratched his neck again. “If all he wants to do is make you happy, and marrying you would make you happy, what's the problem? Sounds to me like it'd make _everyone_ happy.” Ron frowned. “Well, maybe not Mrs Malfoy, but she must be used to the idea of him being bent by now.”

“I don't think she'd care, really. But I don't want him doing things just because it makes me happy. I mean, it's not just about me, is it?”

“I thought… making you happy makes him happy?”

“Yeah, but is that all? Is it really that simple? I mean, Gin - no offence - didn't know what the hell she wanted.”

Ron shrugged. “Malfoy seems to, and I'm looking at it,” he said. “Let's put it this way: he's sacked his job, and any chance of getting a respectable reputation, and he's done stuff that would get him shoved straight in Azkaban for the rest of his natural life and a bit over if anyone complained about it, either because you wanted it or because you needed it. Honestly, mate. Anyone with half a brain'd be telling you to marry him before someone else can.”

 _Is it really that simple?_ Harry shook his head, trying to make sense of it. He categorically did not want Draco even getting the idea of marrying him just because it would make Harry happy. Enough was enough, as far as Harry was concerned – the catering to Harry, putting himself out, sacrificing his own comfort and wellbeing… Harry couldn’t do that to him. He refused – ever – to allow Draco to pick up where he’d left off before they’d become lovers in the true sense of the word. That wasn’t a relationship.

The expression on Ron’s face was expectant, as though he was just waiting for the mental wand movements to flow together before the spell actually worked, and with a slight grin, Harry said, “If we get married, you really need to learn how to knock.”

All of the colour drained from Ron’s face, quickly replaced by an ugly puce. “He was playing the sodding double bass, Harry! Most people don't do that starkers!” Then he scowled. “Most people don’t wank to it, either.”

Flushing brilliantly, Harry replied, “I wasn't wanking. I can't properly, anyway. Just – knock on the bloody door. What did you want to say, anyway?”

“I forget. You seriously can't...?” Ron asked, his expression incredulous.

“What? He doesn’t play for anyone else,” Harry said, changing the subject to avoid further humiliation. 

All of Ron’s freckles seemed to become one large mass as his face squinched. “And that gets you off? Actually, no. I don't want to know. You pair are just... deviant,” Ron said; it was more of a statement of disbelief, Harry noted, than anything like disgust. Then, apparently ready to end the conversation, having had enough of Harry discussing his strange relationship with Draco, Ron called, “Mrs Malfoy!”

“You’re an idiot,” Harry muttered good-naturedly. 

Narcissa turned away from her inspection of a motorbike and gracefully made her way to them, her heels _clacking_ against the concrete.

“You're okay with Harry and Mal— Draco, aren't you?” Ron asked her directly when she was close enough. 

She registered surprise. “In any particular sense, Auror Weasley?”

Harry’s palms itched to hex Ron, anything to get him to shut up. It was more than slightly embarrassing to have his best mate asking the mother of the man he loved whether she minded their relationship, after the fact. _Just what would I be supposed to do if she_ did _mind, now, anyway?_

“As a... you know, a _couple_. What I'm saying is, you'd be okay if they were, you know, _forever_. Yeah?”

“Ron!” Harry snapped. “Just drop it. Don't even know if he wants that.” For a moment, he was also fearful of Narcissa’s response. “Besides… it’s too soon… isn’t it?”

“You’d know better than me, mate,” Ron replied.

“Draco's position has been clear for some months, Harry,” Narcissa said reasonably.

“I didn't know that, though, did I?” Harry frowned. “Not until recently.” He ran his fingers through his hair, making it stick up worse. “I'm making this more complicated than it has to be, aren't I?”

Narcissa smiled. 

“Don’t you always?” Ron snickered.

Harry shook his head, not knowing what to think or do. His thoughts were interrupted by a group of people all shouting ‘Happy Birthday’ to someone at their table, and it reminded Harry about his request of George. He’d lost track of time in general, but he knew it had to be getting closer to June.

“Ron, Narcissa wrote to George for me, about something for Draco's birthday. Can you look into it for me? It's not long off now, is it?” he asked, looking at Narcissa. “I haven't been keeping track of the days.”

She smiled again. “No, not long. Two weeks.”

“Do you plan to have dinner at the Orangery? Like you usually do?”

“I doubt Draco would be amenable to that. He'll want to spend his day with you,” Narcissa replied.

“I told him I wanted to see Teddy and thought about the garden for lunch. We can leave a table out there, yeah? So he can… see the fireworks; if George can do them, we'd have to be in the garden. I want it to be a surprise. And I'm safe in there…”

“That sounds lovely, Harry.”

“Uh, yeah, mate. Lovely.”

Harry glowered reflexively – and half-heartedly – at Ron, who snickered again. “Eleanor can make his favourite foods, right?”

“I'm sure she'd be delighted to.”

Ron muttered something that Harry couldn’t hear, and didn’t care to have repeated since he was fairly sure that it would have been facetious at best. He was more focussed on Draco’s birthday, and what he’d like to do. Physically he wouldn’t be able to do much, but he wanted to do what he could to make it special for Draco.

“You'll owl George?” Harry asked Ron.

“Yeah, sure. Just tell me what you want me to tell him in the morning, when I've got a quill and parchment, yeah?”

“Narcissa already contacted him. I just need to know if he was able to do it and how much Hermione needs to pay him. But I haven't heard anything back. So I didn't know if he was able to do what I asked for or not.” Harry flushed.

“George is brilliant. Whatever it is you've asked him for, I'd put money down he's done it.”

“I know. Just let me know how much, yeah?”

Ron nodded, and Narcissa seemed courteously interested.

Now that he had some things sorted out, Harry was ready to return. He needed to think about the marriage thing, maybe even talk to Narcissa more before he made a decision. “Are you ready to go back inside? He's probably staring through the window, wondering what the hell is taking so long.”

“I'm sure he's perfectly content that you're safe. But if you wish to return, I have no objection.”

Ron shrugged, and Harry powered on his chair, making his way back inside.

Back at the table, Harry smiled brilliantly at Draco, receiving a bemused expression in response. He picked at his food a little bit more, and to his surprise, there was even another pint waiting for him. Turning to give his thanks, Draco’s expression looked almost devilish, and Harry stopped short, slightly taken aback by it.

Knowing Draco’s birthday was drawing nearer, he needed to confirm something. “So since you'll know the results of the counter-curse in three days does that mean you plan to remove the curse that soon?”

Draco glanced at Ron. “That depends on the final findings. It seems to be proceeding within the anticipated parameters, but another day or so will confirm it.”

“Oh, that’s good, right?” Harry asked.

A slight smile curved Draco’s lips. “Yes, that’s good.”

“You'll want to wait a bit?”

“Once I'm sure the counter-curse functions as it should? No, I hadn't planned on it. I want the curse off you as soon as can be managed, Potter.”

Throat tight, Harry swallowed. He wasn’t looking forward to the spell being removed so soon. If it was anything like the last time, he _knew_ it was going to be hell.

“It should be easier on you,” Draco said reassuringly. “It's removing the thing that causes the problems you had last time. You'll probably be very weak, but it shouldn't be painful. Weasley certainly didn't find it so. And once it's gone, in any case, I can use magic to manage any lingering symptoms.”

Harry nodded. “Can we wait? Until after your birthday? I'd rather like to spend it with you conscious,” he said, trying to calm his apprehension.

Blinking in surprise, Draco said, “I would have thought you'd be anxious to get rid of the curse. I'll have other birthdays, after all. As you prefer, though. The deterioration has practically halted; another two or three weeks won’t make an appreciable difference.”

Smiling, Harry said, “I don't want to be like I was last time, that's all. Want to enjoy it with you.”

“Then I suppose I'd better start thinking of enjoyable things to do.” That predatory gleam that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine accompanied his words.

Harry grinned, his face reddening. “Yeah. S’ppose so.”

The remainder of the meal passed with relative ease. Once they had finished, Harry, pleasantly buzzing on more than just the beer, sighed happily, as the MPV drove them to the cinema which must have been all of a hundred yards across the car park. 

Instead of entering at the front, they were escorted through the back, and led directly to the theatre. Draco, Harry noted, had gone through a lot of trouble to set all of this up for him, and it made him smile. Draco helped him settle in one of the normal seats, then took the seat to his right, Ron, Dawlish, Hermione, and Narcissa all surrounding them in some way. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. 

Harry was surprised when Dawlish, apparently Draco’s errand-Auror for the evening, brought popcorn, which Harry really had no room left to eat, and drinks. He shook his head when Draco offered him some, and settled as comfortably as possible, _trying_ to keep his mind on the film, but seeing in his mind’s eye Draco on his knees in that bathroom, and wanting to feel that cock in his mouth again, was making it difficult to focus. When he’d finally had enough, his patience already pushed past its limits, he hoped he hadn’t misunderstood Narcissa’s laying her hand on his arm at the pub as a means to gain attention, and reached over and touched Draco’s arm briefly. Even if they were in the darkness of the theatre, he had a feeling anything more would get him in trouble.

Draco looked at him immediately. “I need the loo,” Harry said, leaning toward him, probably a little more obvious, but he didn’t want to disturb anyone else. 

When they made their way out, though, Harry realised he had no reason to be fussed with bothering anyone else; there were barely any other people seated near them. Draco walked at his side, as he had done before, and the moment the door closed, the _shick_ of the lock clicking into place, Harry turned to face Draco. He reached out for Draco’s jeans, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button.

“I can’t get on my knees, but…” Harry said with a grin.

Draco was stunned. “You don’t have to do this, Potter.”

“I know. That’s why I want to.” He was still working Draco’s jeans open, trying to get to his cock.

A smile quirked at Draco’s lips as he helped. “I suppose you’ll be quieter this time.”

Unable to suppress his laughter, Harry let it go, and ran his thumbs along the delicious curve of Draco’s hips. He leaned forward, running his tongue along the dip, nipping it slightly as he inhaled Draco’s scent. 

It took a few moments to work out the best way to go about sucking Draco’s cock while he was seated in the chair, but he managed to get an angle that, while it wasn’t the most comfortable position for him, enabled him to reach the head of Draco’s cock perfectly. That it curved down slightly was even better.

Wanting to feel Draco, he ran his cheek along the side of Draco’s cock, his lips barely brushing against it as he worked his way to the head. He exhaled against it, then opened his mouth, sliding his tongue along the vein on the underside, one hand supporting the shaft. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold Draco for long, but he wanted to while he could. He might not fancy the taste as much, but he reckoned he could get used to it. The weight and texture were what turned him on the most. He liked feeling each small jerk of Draco’s cock when he licked him a certain way or hummed in pleasure. He didn’t particularly know what he was doing apart from trying what he liked, but he assumed Draco’s putting his hands on his face, thumbs caressing his jaw, was a good thing. 

It was incredibly noisy. He pulled back too soon, or his mouth got tired and he ended up loosening his lips as he sucked harder. But he also liked just having Draco in his mouth, and giving him pleasure. His hand finally grew tired, but he didn’t stop. If anything, it made him try harder. He was very conscious of his teeth, trying desperately to keep them from scraping against Draco as he closed his eyes and concentrated all of his efforts. Draco was breathing more heavily. His thumbs were pressing pleasantly against Harry’s face, the gentle stroke of his fingers all the encouragement Harry needed. 

Slowly he moved lower, but didn’t want to choke, so he pulled back quickly, his mouth leaving Draco’s cock completely. 

“Love your cock,” he murmured, glancing up. Draco’s expression was clear: ‘put your mouth back on it, then, you monumental idiot.’

Harry groaned, his lips and tongue working again. With his other hand, he caressed Draco’s balls, curling his fingers around the back, stroking, enraptured by what he was doing. He ignored the cramp in his jaw, his sole purpose to make Draco come, to taste his come, and give him pleasure.

There was only that moment, and he was so occupied, it wasn’t until Draco began to pull away that he realised he was going to come. Needing to be able to taste him, swallow him like Draco did for Harry, he kept his mouth busy, taking Draco’s hips in hand to steady him – to tell him what he wanted. Draco froze. Harry moaned around Draco’s cock, anticipating what he knew was about to happen. It wasn’t enough, though. The first spurt of come against his tongue and throat was so completely foreign that he had no choice but to pull away, grimacing slightly. He looked at Draco’s face as he came, his breath a harsh staccato rhythm as he stood with his cock in hand, his eyes closed.

Seeing that look always made Harry’s skin prickle, and even more so when _he_ had put it there. Still for only a moment longer, Draco began cleaning himself up. Harry sat back in his chair, realising he had some come on his shirt and jeans. 

“Sorry,” he said softly. 

Shaking his head, Draco said, “I had hoped to spare you that. _That_ 's an acquired taste, too.”

“Clearly,” Harry replied, embarrassed.

Draco looked at him askance. “And you don't have to acquire it. Do bear that in mind.”

Harry smiled. “You like it, though.”

“I'm fond of the delivery method, too. But the point is that _you_ don't have to be. The fact that I like it doesn't put you under any obligation at all to like it, too.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t think I am,” Harry said as Draco sponged at his shirt and jeans with a moistened paper towel.

Grey eyes narrowed at him for a moment. “Good.”

Harry shrugged again. “I want to know what I like as much as you do. I'll never know if I don't try.”

“As long as that's all it is.”

“Just let me get used to it. I'll tell you if I don't like it. Promise. I like sucking your cock.” Harry flushed.

That distinctly predatory smile was on Draco’s face. “Good. I like hearing you wail.”

Harry bit his lip, still flushing. “Shall we, um, go back to the film?”

“We should, yes,” he said. “I’ll attend to this first if you have no pressing objections, though.”

“You said something about keeping me naked for a while…” Harry reminded him. He would have been content to let Draco suck him off again, but he knew that one of the most exciting things about any sex with Draco was that the anticipation, the need, was part of what made it so brilliant. 

“Sucking you off now doesn't preclude that, you know.”

“I have learned a measure of patience. I can wait. It'll be worth more.”

Visibly disappointed, Draco replied, “As you prefer.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure his resolve would hold, but there was something about knowing he could set the terms as much as Draco that added to the arousal that accompanied thoughts of any sexual contact with him. There was no need to perform if he didn’t feel like it, and right then, while he very much wanted Draco’s mouth on him again, he was also willing to wait. 

“I really should use the toilet while we’re in here,” Harry said, smiling. 

Without question, Draco helped him piss, and they returned to their seats. Harry tried to maintain his focus on the film, but he’d used a lot of energy. That and his tolerance for alcohol of any sort wasn’t what it once had been, so he tipped his head back, resting it against the seat, blinking intermittently as fatigue folded its arms around him. 

At some point, he felt Draco’s fingers against his forearm, a brief touch that sent a thrill through him. Harry turned, a soft smile on his face.

“How are you feeling?” Draco asked.

“Mmm. Fine,” Harry replied. 

His answer seemed to be enough; Draco nodded and settled in his seat again. And tired from the evening, Harry closed his eyes, no longer fighting to stay awake. 

To Be Continued…

See everyone when I get back! :)


	31. Chapter 31

****

Chapter 31: The Centre Becomes The Whole

The film Harry was watching wasn't his ideal choice, but rather than complain, he lay in bed and watched it, letting his mind wander. Hermione sat in the chair that Draco had spent so much time in prior to their sleeping together, and the TV had been turned slightly so she could see it easily. To Harry, she looked even more tired than when they had gone to the cinema, which wasn't saying much, considering she really hadn't looked like herself for months. There was nothing Harry could do, though – not that he'd want to. He had enough problems of his own to deal with, and somehow making Ron and Hermione both understand that they weren't as compatible as they believed was not high on Harry's ‘to do’ list.

She'd interrupted the film a few times already, her voice always breaking through while Harry had been remembering the last few days, his arse tightening with the memory of being fingered until he came. Once he'd got his breath back, Harry had asked Draco if he could try doing the same to him. Receptive to the idea, Draco had helped Harry by holding his hand steady until the angle and logistics of it had become entirely too complicated for Harry's physical ability. Finally being able to feel Draco had been brilliant, though. He definitely wanted to do it again, and for all Draco wasn’t as sensitive as Harry was, he had seemed to enjoy Harry’s brief explorations of his body. Afterwards, he had watched Draco bathe for once, enjoyed seeing as he cleaned himself as meticulously as he did Harry, and Harry couldn’t wait for the day he could return the favour.

“Harry,” Hermione interjected, interrupting his thoughts, apparently still on her train of thought about Draco’s autocratic behaviour and abrupt, unsolicited medical advice, “can you believe he actually said: ‘Granger, I am going to say this once and once only. There are some things that not even _you_ can learn from a book. If you want to know how to deal with a difficult husband, talk to my mother. If you want to know about being a mother, talk to Eleanor Prout. Eat properly, go to bed at a reasonable hour – alone if necessary – and take at least one walk around the entire north wing twice daily.’?” 

Harry mused that it was incredible the way she was able to recall entire pieces of dialogue. 

“He’s a Healer – so he’s trained to counsel people, hasn’t he? Honestly. I just don’t understand things with Ron and Molly, and I thought – well I don’t know why, really – that it might be a pure-blood thing and that Malfoy could… help me. And Ron’s just… I don’t know what to do any more. He’s trying, he really is, but he doesn’t understand what I need from him.”

“Hermione, you know you and Ron are my best mates, but I can't help you. I-I’m just not the best person to ask for advice on that sort of thing.” 

“Oh, Malfoy mentioned that, too.” Hermione scowled. “'And don't even contemplate asking Potter for advice of any description. For one thing, he's in an even worse position than I am to tell anyone how to conduct a successful heterosexual relationship.’” Harry couldn’t argue with that; he’d never been terribly good with relationships. What he’d had with Cho had failed miserably, same as with Ginny. The only person he seemed to have been able to fit with was Draco. Part of him thought that was because for all they were different, they were the same. “‘For another, I refuse to have him driven to a nervous breakdown by having the pair of you pulling him in different directions. Cry on his shoulder by all means, preferably when he's wearing that appalling violet shirt, but leave him out of your marital difficulties’,” Hermione was saying, her voice clipped, in the same way Harry could imagine Draco's to have been as he had spoken to her. 

That Draco had seen fit to warn Hermione off about helping them through their marital difficulties didn’t bother Harry. A small smile played at his lips at the mention of the violet shirt, though; Luna had picked it out in London, and Harry had argued against it then, but she’d been keen on it, so he’d given in and purchased it. 

“Have you and Ron worked out a name yet?” Harry asked, trying to change the subject. Hermione, pleased with the new direction of the conversation, chatted somewhat animatedly about the baby. This was a discussion Harry was more inclined to follow, found himself comfortable with.

Absently, he looked at the TV, seeing one of the strangest – and most elegant – things he’d ever seen: there was a large hotel, crafted completely from ice, and curious about it, an idea beginning to form, Harry looked at Hermione and asked what she knew about it. Details swarmed together as Hermione rattled off more than any one person should know about something so random. He appreciated that she hadn’t needed to go look up the details, though. Looking at it, he decided it was perfect, and after everything they’d dealt with for the last nine months, a holiday seemed to be a perfect idea once Harry was healthy again. It was aesthetically pleasing, each room with a different theme, and Harry thought Draco might appreciate it. Making up his mind, Harry requested Hermione get the appropriate information for him.

At that point, the bedroom door opened and Draco walked in, wearing long sleeves. Harry thought that was odd, but he didn't think it was important enough to question.

“Teddy and Aunt Andromeda are here,” he said.

If respect had to be earned, Draco had proven he deserved every bit of what Harry felt for him with that small courtesy. Knowing that Teddy had been mimicking the Mark, Draco had made a decision that would cover it from view, and the warmth of appreciation that had been nurtured now blossomed in Harry’s thoughts. Harry smiled and turned off the film. Hermione kindly excused herself, closing the door behind her. Harry, after having been helped into his chair, kissed Draco briefly, smiling at the twitch of Draco's pale fingers. The moment they moved into the sitting room, Teddy was yelling, “Harry!” as he slid off Andromeda's lap. 

Draco, after helping Harry to the sofa, took a seat, crossing his legs as always, and Teddy, no longer deterred by his cousin's looming presence, rushed to Harry's lap, a bit more excitedly than Harry had expected, the child's knee landing directly on his bits. A sharp pain shot through Harry, the air forced from his lungs uncomfortably as he choked.

“Teddy!” Andromeda called sharply. “Be careful!”

The child, with his blond hair and green eyes turned to her and the Dark Mark morphed onto the surface of his forearm. There was an angry look on his face and lifted his arm toward his grandmother. Andromeda’s face grew fierce, and she shot an angry look at Draco.

Harry tried to suck in a breath of air as Teddy turned toward him again. Draco, before anyone else could act or say anything, lifted Teddy from Harry's lap and put him down when he'd cleared the sofa. 

Draco dropped to one knee to look Teddy in the eye and said kindly, but firmly, “You cannot jump on your godfather at the moment.” Then, with a tone even firmer and less kind than before, added, “You are not to wear that Mark any more.”

“You have it,” Teddy said, pouting. He folded his arms in defiance.

Draco raised an eyebrow and gave the boy a quelling look. “I have it because I was a stupid, cowardly ass of a boy and I didn't think I had a choice. This Mark is _not_ something you should ever wear. It means the worst thing that has ever existed. It was the emblem of a twisted, evil creature that you should fall down on your knees and thank all the powers of creation no longer exists.” Draco narrowed his eyes at the truculent child. “Do you know why you don't have a mother and father?”

It grieved Harry that Draco felt he had had no choice in taking the Mark. His openly admitting it to Teddy both shocked and worried Harry; he wasn’t sure what Draco might say to make Teddy understand the impact that Mark had on the wizarding world. Harry’s glance shifted to Andromeda for a moment: he wasn’t going to intervene unless Draco said something that was not in Teddy’s best interests; Andromeda appeared guilty, then her expression shifted to something less readable when she felt Harry’s gaze.

“’Cos they’re dead,” Teddy said, turning to look at Harry and Andromeda.

Draco nodded grimly. “Yes. People who wore _this_ —” Draco pointed at the Mark on Teddy's arm, “—killed them. People who wore this believed that your grandfather shouldn't have been allowed to bear a wand, that your father was a dangerous animal, and that your mother was a filthy mongrel. Do you understand me? _That_ is what this Mark means. _That_ is what wearing it says _you_ believe.” 

Shock moved through Harry faster than the Knight Bus, and he stared at Draco. He and Andromeda hadn't ever come up with a decision when they should talk to Teddy about Remus and Tonks, but Draco had taken that out of their hands, which Harry was oddly grateful for. At the same time, Harry was horrified that Draco was going to no trouble at all to spare anybody’s feelings. 

“I didn't know your grandfather. I wasn't _allowed_ to know your grandfather, but your father was a good man and your mother was a brave and admirable woman. And they were slaughtered like rabid animals by people who wore this Mark and believed in the things it stands for,” Draco said. Draco’s eyes narrowed further, becoming little more than slits and giving him a snake-ish, calculating air Harry had never seen on him before. “People who wore that Mark, and the creature who gave it to them, hunted and hurt your godfather, and would have killed him if they could. Wearing this Mark says that you are one of them, and you mean him harm. Unless that is true, Cousin, you will not wear that Mark again.” 

Unable to see anything apart from Teddy looking at his arm and a nod from Draco, Harry had no idea what was going on. Apparently what Draco had said had made sense to the boy, because Teddy slowly turned around with his head down and approached the sofa. Harry flinched slightly, hoping that he wouldn't get the idea to jump in his lap again. But his worry had been unfounded, as Teddy settled comfortably, oddly subdued, next to Harry and looked at his trainers. 

Looking up, Harry caught Draco regarding him for a long moment, but he turned and left before anything discernable could be made of it. Teddy sat for a long time quietly, and after Draco had left, he eventually got up and began colouring, his Harry Potter doll next to him.

“Harry,” Andromeda began, after a few moments of uneasy silence, “I trust you know how fond I am of you, and of my affection for my sister and nephew, but I can't help having slight reservations about this relationship you have with him. I trust you and your judgement, but I hope you know what you're getting into with the Malfoys.”

Unsure where that particular train of thought had come from, Harry looked at Andromeda, slightly confused. “I appreciate the concern, Andromeda, I really do, but I don't think there's anything to worry about. I don't know how, but ... I fell in love with him.” Harry flushed.

“I'm sure you did, Harry. But you just need to know what you're dealing with. My sister is... well, she's devoted to you, but she's used to getting her own way. She hates to be crossed. And Draco... Draco is troubled, Harry. He probably always will be,” she said. “They could destroy you, between them. They might not even mean to do it. They're not like you, you see,” she added, the concern evident in her tone and expression.

Harry couldn't believe Andromeda was speaking so poorly of her own sister. He knew that both Draco and Narcissa had done things in their past that were hardly worthy of an Order of Merlin, but they had also redeemed themselves greatly over the years. “I have to take that chance. He's done more for me than anyone else, and I trust him. You haven't been here all along. You don't see how much he does,” Harry said. “He wore the same clothes for nearly a week... he's called Aurors. He's given up everything for me. Narcissa… she's been helpful.”

Andromeda nodded. “I know he has. I won't lie to you; that's part of what concerns me. It's not like him. Nor is it like _her_. I don't... I don't dispute that they both have the best of intentions, and it's clear that they both love you dearly, but they're just not... they're not _safe_. That's the long and the short of it,” she explained. “I know they were both acquitted, in the end, but they're dangerous people. Narcissa's a Black to the bone, and Draco's more his mother's son than his father's; they will do more harm out of love than they will out of anger. And my— my greatest fear is that you may find yourself caught in the crossfire.”

Harry sighed. “I know that. And... I've accepted that.” Harry felt the need to defend Draco. “Draco will not hurt me. And he'd send Narcissa packing if he felt she was.”

Andromeda's expression was grave. “But how much would it hurt you to know that you were the cause of the rift between them? Or to lose one to retain the other?” She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound so negative. I'm just... I wouldn't want to see you hurt. You've got a good head on your shoulders, and a good heart. Just, please, tread carefully.”

“I-I don't know.” Harry shook his head. “He loves me, too, and if that isn't enough, then what is? I'm happy. They're my family...”

“As long as you're happy, that's all that matters. I hope it works, I really do. You deserve it, and so does Draco, after all he's lived through.”

“We'll make it work,” Harry said with certainty. And if they couldn’t, that didn’t bear thinking about – not when Harry had asked something of Draco that could ruin him completely. 

A smile broke the concerned expression on Andromeda's face. “If anyone can, it's you. Draco has it in him to be a wonderful man, if he's shown the way.”

An answer was on the tip of Harry's tongue, but Mrs Prout entered, informing them that lunch was ready. She assisted Harry into his chair, and they took their meal in the garden. Teddy played for a long time, and they watched. Harry explained what he had planned for Draco's birthday, told Andromeda about the counter-curse having been tested, but that he had asked Draco to wait. 

They chatted for a bit longer, but eventually Teddy grew restless, so Andromeda took him home before he could become fretful. Long after they had left, Harry spent his afternoon with Narcissa, Mrs Prout, and Dawlish, learning the appropriate ways he could touch Draco in public. It would take some time to grasp all of it, but it was a start. That was the important thing.

He was interrupted when Draco returned for dinner, surprising him. When Draco disappeared, Harry never knew _when_ he might return, but that he always would. They had dinner together, and Harry, whose thoughts were centred entirely around the strange conversation at dinner in Swindon, was only vaguely aware of what Draco was saying. He caught enough of it to understand that Narcissa had just been warned not to make Draco choose between her and Harry – something about Narcissa having found herself providing marital advice to Hermione, and Draco indicating that wherever Harry was, his friends would never be too far away; that they would either be welcome at the Manor, or Harry – and therefore Draco himself – would remove elsewhere. If there had been any lingering doubt concerning Draco’s commitment to Harry, it would have been swept away with that moment. Draco had fixed the Vanishing Cabinet for his mother’s protection, yet he would give her up for Harry without hesitation. That much was clear. And that forced his thoughts back to the night in Swindon, how she had reminded Harry how clear Draco’s position was. Narcissa, charming woman that she was, gave Harry a meaningful look when Draco’s attention was diverted to the wine.

Unintentionally, when they'd gone to the cinema, he'd posed a question that had awakened what had only been brief thoughts in passing. They apparently had grown beyond mere passing, into something much bigger, something Harry wanted and wasn’t afraid to take if Draco was remotely amenable to it. That he could marry Draco, make everything he felt official to the rest of the world, a statement that ‘Draco Malfoy belongs to Harry Potter’ and vice versa, made him relish the idea. Draco was as central to his existence as Harry was to Draco’s, and he didn’t want to give that up; it was too important. 

With marriage, all of the pieces would fit together. He was perfectly aware that marriage wouldn’t make their relationship – they had that already. But marrying Draco would mean that no matter how small, his family was tangible, that he was part of something and someone. While Harry still struggled to understand what Draco’s fault-lines and fractures were, and how to communicate with him – and have Draco communicate in return – on the deeper emotional things, there was nothing he couldn’t work out given enough time and motivation. They really did have for as long as there was, and Harry, now that he had Draco fully, wanted the remaining ties to be bound, so that there was no mistaking what Draco meant to him. 

Realising that he would be comfortable with being married to Draco, Harry tried to work out the best way to broach the topic. Harry didn't want to bare his soul, then have Draco say no; he wasn't sure he could handle that. But everything he'd observed, rather than been told, all seemed to gravitate toward the same thing: if he didn't put it just right, Draco would probably take it as a cue to do something to make Harry happy, and he probably was capable of entering into marriage for no other reason. That wasn't what Harry wanted, though. Giving Draco any reason to suspect that Harry was inclined toward making everything that they were official in the eyes of the wizarding world would only complicate things unnecessarily. Even knowing that he had a permanent place at the Manor, Harry needed to know, hypothetically, what Draco's response would have been had Harry proposed in seriousness. Ron had been right: Harry might as well have been proposing. The idea of spending the rest of his life with Draco was scary, but with that, a strange calm moved through him, enough that his body seemed to sway to an undetectable breeze in the room. Of course, he was nervous, too, but he reckoned that was normal. There was no doubt in Harry's mind to what he wanted from their relationship. That sort of permanence, knowing that they belonged to one another, had great appeal to Harry.

The nightly physio began after Harry’s bath, his mind still on the future. Draco was going through the calming and routine motions of his stretches, after he had led Harry through a series of breathing exercises and techniques to fix calming mental images while he relaxed. Ron’s statement about everything Draco had given up for him – which Harry was fully aware of – about how anyone with half a brain would marry Draco before someone else could, had made Harry realise he didn’t want someone else to get that opportunity. As far as Harry was concerned, Draco was his.

“What if it had been a proposal?” Harry asked abruptly. 

“I'd say that your sense of occasion is atrocious,” Draco replied with a reasonable approximation of calm, then tilted his head contemplatively to one side. “And then I'd say we should get married.” It was a plain statement.

Harry's mouth dropped open in surprise.

“If you don't close your mouth, Potter, I may be minded to fill it for you,” Draco said, faintly amused.

“Okay,” Harry said, still in shock.

The distance between them disappeared, and Draco closed in, his mouth, too devilish for words, pressing against Harry's. A kiss hadn't been the first thing to flash into Harry's mind's eye when Draco had made the statement about filling his mouth, but he was fine with a thorough snog. “ _If_ it had been a proposal, that is,” Draco said pointedly when the kiss ended.

“I can imagine the look on the faces at the Ministry. Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy...” Harry chuckled, running his hands along Draco's flanks.

A pale eyebrow rose. “ _Malfoy_ and Malfoy.” 

Harry looked at Draco questioningly.

Draco drawled, ”I really don't think that 'Draco Potter' scans very well.” 

Harry laughed. The statement, however simplistic, told Harry that Draco _had_ considered marriage to him, enough that he’d obviously decided he didn’t care for the way his name would sound with Harry’s. There was a sense of calm that accompanied the thought: Harry knew his name would only cause unnecessary problems for Draco, but Harry, being who he was, would probably still be looked at in the same way; though, he hoped in one way, rather selfishly, that taking Draco’s name would mean the fan mail would finally stop, that people would see him as just another person, not someone to be thought of as their hero any longer.

“And my mother would probably object to re-naming the house.” 

“Oh, is that all?” Harry asked playfully.

“Apart from the fact that it's as close to a screaming declaration that you're _mine_ as I'm going to get, short of tattooing 'property of Draco Malfoy' on your forehead, yes.” 

Harry flushed. It occurred to him that he liked the idea of belonging to Draco, of Draco belonging to him. “Is that what you want?” He refused to fall back into the routine of Draco doing whatever Harry wanted. “S'ppose I need to talk to your mum, then.” Harry looked at Draco.

Draco's eyebrow rose. “I'm the head of household, Potter. You don't need to ask her permission to pay your addresses.” 

_No, but I haven’t got a bloody clue how to propose to you._ “And the other question?”

Draco's expression couldn't have been any clearer: 'you're an idiot'. “Potter, there are many things I will give you just to keep you happy. But my hand in marriage and my name are not among them.” 

“Good.” Harry smiled and kissed Draco again, and clumsily began to unbutton Draco’s shirt. His hands were shaking from the effort, and noticing, Draco took the lead, exposing his pale skin slowly. 

Harry brushed his fingertips along the warm skin of Draco’s shoulders. The shirt fell to the floor with a faint whisper, the rest of his clothes following. 

Once on the bed, Draco positioned himself next to Harry, his hands roaming across Harry’s goose-pimpled flesh. It always made Harry’s heart palpitate wildly to feel Draco give so much of himself for Harry’s pleasure. It was addictive – the way Draco’s fingers knew exactly where to touch. A soft moan broke free from Harry’s lips as Draco’s hand moved lower. 

Their breathing quickened with each deft stroke against Harry’s hardening cock. The taste of toothpaste and Draco assaulted his mouth as their lips crashed together again. Wild tongues danced against one another. Lips tingling with what felt like electricity held between them began to part wider as they tried to drink of one another. 

Draco broke the kiss, moving down his body slowly. To Harry, each press of lips against his body, swipe of tongue, and nip of teeth was a reminder of how much Draco liked to feast on his body. It was hunger, the same that Harry felt for Draco, only he couldn’t show it in the same way. His nerves were on fire, the heat spreading to every bit of him that Draco wasn’t touching.

Harry’s thighs were spread, his cock on display obscenely before Draco. It was begging to be touched. Licked. Sucked. He wanted that wicked mouth to open around him, swallow him, but Draco seemed to have other plans.

When he realised Draco had other plans, though, his arse twitched. His fingers ached to touch Draco. Thoughts had all ceased to make sense. The scent of lubrication mingled with the smell of Draco’s body, of arousal. Harry inhaled it, let it fill his lungs as he welcomed the feeling of Draco’s fingers inside him. A low moan shattered the near-silence of the room. Draco wasn’t loud, but Harry could hear him enough. Quick inhales followed each thrust that pushed him to the brink of incoherence. 

“’S good,” Harry moaned, his body relaxed. He loved the way it felt as Draco’s fingers moved deeper, then shallower. A crook of them to press against his prostate. “Fuck, more,” he panted, his voice ragged. His throat felt like a desert. He needed Draco as his oasis. Needed rough if he could have it; wanted nothing more than to feel the way he seemed to twist from the inside out when Draco’s hands took the frayed edges of sensation and brought them together, weaving a tapestry of the feelings that surrounded Harry. When Draco was ready, he’d release them, him. The pleasure would unwind chaotically until there was nothing left. His voice would be reduced to a scratching plea. And Harry wanted that. 

Waiting for it was pure madness. His fingers trembled against the bedding. Patience began to wane. His throat burned with each inhale. He tried to swallow, tasting himself and Draco in the air. The smell of sex, the musky scent of his own arse with lubrication all found their way to him. It heightened everything. The firm curl of fingers, the sounds of Draco breathing and slick fingers moving in and out of him. 

It was too much. He was like a fuse that had been lit. The fire roared through him, over him. What felt like the stinging shock of ice water hit Harry as Draco stopped, and he froze, his whole body screaming for the movement to continue. Teeth folded his lip, his eyes tightly closed. “Draco,” Harry pleaded. “Don’ s-stop. Why’d you stop?” he groaned.

“I was thinking of fucking you.”

Harry’s head snapped up, and he choked slightly. “Yes,” he demanded. Draco was the only thing keeping him from falling into oblivion. As much as he wanted that, though, he wanted Draco more. 

“Um, Draco, are you - uh - going to use a condom? I know you can't use the spells..." Harry’s brow furrowed. "We never, um, talked about it,” he said.

One of those pale eyebrows rose. “I could answer that in several ways. Most practically, neither of us has any diseases that using... one of those... would contain. Then there's the fact that I've had my tongue up your arse - and saliva-slicked fingers up your arse - several times already. I've already introduced my bodily secretions to the index tissues. If you were going to catch anything from me, or vice versa, it would already have happened." 

Harry wasn’t concerned about diseases; as fastidious as Draco was – not to mention being a Healer and more inclined to cut off his own cock than injure Harry – he wasn’t worried, but he did want to show he’d at least _thought_ about precautions.

Draco shifted to the top of the bed. Unable to concentrate, Harry let his body be moved around as Draco spoke until Harry was on top of Draco, braced against Draco’s body. Nervously, Draco was explaining exactly what he was doing and why he had chosen the position, but Harry wasn’t paying attention. All he knew was that his heart felt like it was going to be yanked from his chest. Lithe thighs supported Harry’s weight, and he buried his face in Draco’s neck, unable to support himself to look at Draco, licking and kissing whatever skin he could reach. He wrapped his arms around Draco’s shoulders, and found himself feeling uncomfortably like dead weight. The way he was being moved was not ideal, but he knew that was how it had to be: he was like a rag doll being positioned. What words Harry did catch were clinical explanations – testament to how anxious Draco was. The trust between them, and the knowledge that as soon as Harry said it was too much, allowed Harry to continue breathing, slowly relaxing his muscles with each reminder that while Draco was physically in control, Harry held all of the power over that moment. 

Harry tensed abruptly as he felt the blunt press of Draco’s cock against him. Draco paused, demonstrating how aware of Harry’s body he was. “’M alrigh’,” Harry whispered. He was a labyrinth, drawing Draco into the sharp angles and blocked pathways of himself. Draco’s chest expanded against Harry’s in a quick rhythm, receded, then they were connected again. His knees were against the bed, Draco’s thighs and arms and hands supporting him like he was the most precious thing in the world, and he closed his eyes, only listening to the sound of Draco’s voice, their breathing, and the shifting of the bed. All he could do was press his lips and tongue against Draco’s neck, the answering pulse beating against his mouth like a warning. He didn’t like that he had no control, that he couldn’t make himself relax, enjoy the way it felt. His body gave way, arse stretching to accommodate, the burn of muscle unused to something as hard and thick as Draco’s cock moving into him. A shiver ran through him as he panted into Draco’s neck, soft puffs moving back into his face. It was unlike the way Draco’s fingers felt inside him, and he realised Draco had been right: fingers couldn’t adequately prepare him. Not when he factored in how he felt about the position, being unable to see Draco, and disliking the way he had to be passive. It couldn’t have been any better for Draco, though; his whole body was like a board beneath Harry’s, his shoulders, arms, and legs straining to control and support Harry’s weight.

Draco’s cock felt unyielding as it moved into him, and it was bloody uncomfortable. No matter how much Harry tried, it was impossible to allow himself to enjoy the experience; excitement and tension made his entire body feel rigid. He felt too tight, now. Somewhere in the flurry of high emotion and trying to breathe, Harry heard Draco murmuring reassurances, but he couldn’t make out the words, just the intent with the tone. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry as the realisation that it _really_ wasn’t anything like he expected hit him hard. Inside his head were ghosts, moans that spilt over into his heart, clenching it tightly. No idea how to tell Draco to stop, without hurting him, Harry closed his eyes, forcing the audible sound of his own heart breaking from his mind. The pieces of Draco would have to be picked up later, Harry knew, and he dreaded saying anything, but he’d made a promise. A promise he planned to keep, because without that trust between them, there was nothing. It was the way he felt like his bowels were going to release, expected, but no less horrifying, the tension in Draco’s body as he lowered Harry onto him, his legs taut and body straining, and he couldn’t do it. He wanted it – more than he could express – but it didn’t feel right. Not because Draco was doing anything wrong, but the sensations weren’t inherently pleasurable, more awkward and unforgiving, and the emotional and psychological discomfort of not participating felt like it was weighing him down. He just was. Draco was holding him steady, and all Harry could do was cling tightly, his arms trembling. He had known it wouldn’t be perfect, but hadn’t expected _that_.

Torn between prolonging the discomfort, seeing if it was temporary, and knowingly crushing Draco with the admission that it was too much, that Harry had been careless again and hadn’t listened, he took a deep breath. He’d wanted this, really wanted it, and had coaxed Draco into having sex with him, despite reasonable protests, and everything that Draco had feared was happening, just as he’d said it would. It had nothing to do with what Draco was doing, but he knew Draco wouldn’t see it that way; he’d immediately think he had hurt Harry, and Harry _knew_ that wasn’t the case. Draco was being careful, was taking his time, but he also knew that it couldn’t be pleasurable for him, either. He took another deep breath, refusing to break his promise that he’d tell Draco if it was too much, as much as he hated doing it. 

“No, stop; I can’t do this,” he choked. Then his breathing became ragged, almost as though every exhale was being scraped along glass before it made its way from his body. He kissed Draco’s neck quickly, arms needing the body beneath his as an anchor.

Draco froze immediately. He carefully lifted Harry until his cock was free. 

Harry, needing to reassure Draco that he hadn’t done anything wrong, held tight when Draco tried to move Harry from his lap. 

“No. I want to stay like this.” 

Draco’s body was shaking, and Harry clung as tightly to him as possible, their erections dead between them as Harry struggled for the right words to express what he was feeling, even though he didn’t know what to say. Words, some that seemed appropriate, some that didn’t, flew through his mind, instinct the driving force that dictated his actions. If he let the weight of his tongue prevent him from speaking, Draco would be lost to him, he knew that, and he couldn’t have that. Making Draco understand that he hadn’t hurt him was paramount; Harry couldn’t show physically that he was fine, so he had to say it.

Harry kissed Draco’s neck, since that was where his face rested. “I'm fine, Draco. You haven't hurt me.” One hand remained wrapped around Draco, the other threaded through his hair.

Draco muttered something mostly unintelligible. Harry missed most of it, but he what he did catch made his heart sink. “…knew this was a bad idea.” Guilt fuelled those words, not rejection, Harry knew, and he held onto Draco, his own arms shaking, as though both of their lives depended on that connection.

“You're everything. Nothing to feel guilty for. It's okay. I'm fine.”

Draco’s body went slack, passive at Harry’s words. Having no idea if he was doing the right thing, Harry continued talking. Remembering how Draco had handled him when he’d been ready to shatter, he chose to reiterate in terms he _knew_ would be clear to Draco.

“I know you didn't mean to hurt me. That you were willing to try... I don't think I can tell you how much that means to me. There's... no one else I would trust this way.”

Draco twitched. 

The realisation that Harry could completely break Draco in that moment crashed against him, knocking the breath from his lungs. He knew that he had to be very careful with his choice of words; one wrong selection and Draco would shatter, and Harry would be unable to piece him back together. The situation was reversed for them: now Harry was holding Draco in the palm of his hand.

“I don't regret it, and you shouldn't, either.”

A shudder rippled through Draco’s body. 

“I won't hurt you or hold this against you. You do know that, don't you? I need you to know that.” Harry kissed Draco softly to punctuate his words. “You're everything, Draco. Remember that.” Harry ran his cheek across Draco’s, hoping for both their sakes that he was saying the right thing. “I'm not going anywhere. I’m not letting you go anywhere, either.” 

Whispers of reassurance brushed against Draco’s neck. Harry kissed him as a reminder that he was still there, that he wasn’t going anywhere, just waiting for Draco to calm down. It pained him to experience Draco’s coping mechanism. There was no sound, apart from his breathing and the bedding as it shifted under his shivering body. It broke Harry’s heart that this was all Draco knew, that he buried his emotions so deeply that he’d make himself into a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any moment. The only thing keeping him where he was, was Harry’s weight on top of him and Harry’s request that they stay as they were.

The tremors began to subside, slowly. No matter how uncomfortable Harry was, he refused to say anything. Draco needed him for once, and he wasn’t going to fuck it up by making some complaint about the position they were in. 

Unexpectedly, Draco began to move, altering their position. “What are you doing?” Harry asked quickly. “Don’t go.”

Harry understood something about Draco being concerned over cramps in his legs. Once Draco had him settled, Harry’s eyes roamed across the hung head and down the rest of Draco’s body. His eyes stopped on the red smears across Draco’s flaccid cock and he stifled the gasp that threatened to call attention to it. He hadn’t realised he’d been that tense, and he certainly hadn’t felt any true pain, just discomfort. There was only a faint residual throb reminding him that Draco had been inside him, however briefly.

Much as Harry wished Draco hadn’t seen it, the movement away from him told him that Draco _had_ and that his reflexive drive to flee had either returned or never wholly receded. Harry couldn’t let that happen, though. Not with this. It was too important. He sat up as quickly as his body would allow and gripped Draco’s wrist before he made it off the bed. Draco froze at his touch, and Harry dropped against the bed, using his body weight to pull Draco with him.

“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. I never meant it this way… not to hurt you.”

Draco was completely limp against him. The only sign on life was the uneven breathing that ghosted across Harry’s neck and collarbones.

“I can't let you go.” Harry’s voice was soft, but firm. “I wouldn't. I don't want to. You mean too much to me for that. This isn't something you can blame yourself for.” Grasping for the words Draco would understand and be able to accept, Harry tried to twist the same things Draco had said to him. “We're each other's, Draco. I'm not going anywhere. I want to wake up with you and go to sleep with you. Feel you. Be able to touch you and kiss you for however long there is.”

The feeling of lukewarm wetness slid across Harry’s neck, and he realised Draco was crying. Determined, he said, “Look at me.”

Draco complied. They were almost completely reversed from the time Harry had broken down, and all he could do was think of what Draco had done for him, try to repeat it, hoping that would help. 

“This doesn't change anything,” Harry said, his voice soft. He leaned forward, kissing away the tears on one cheek. “I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere.” He kissed the tears on the other cheek, continuing. “You're the most important person to me – always will be. You define me as much as I define you. You asked me to remember that, so do that for me. Please.”

Draco made a choking noise, a stream of incoherent apologies flowing out, almost as though his soul, completely in pieces, was bared in that moment. Thinking faster than he ever had had to in his life, Harry continued speaking, “I'm not going to tell you it was wrong – that us trying to have sex is wrong. I'm not going to tell you it's a mistake – that we're a mistake. Stop waiting for it to happen.” He paused, kissing Draco’s temple. “I won’t use this against you, or hurt you. Keep you and hold you, but never that... I promise.” 

Draco collapsed against Harry again, his head in the junction of neck and shoulder. Harry wrapped his arms around him, running his fingers through Draco’s hair. He closed his eyes, continuing to whisper reassurances, reminders that he was there, that he wanted Draco. He tried to fight off sleep, but it came anyway, slowly creeping through him, until there was nothing but the shadow of a quiet mind and the warmth of their bodies together. 

In the early hours of morning, Harry woke alone. It was strange to feel the bed cool, lacking Draco’s additional heat and steady, deep breathing.

“Draco?” Harry called out.

The splash of water met Harry’s ears, and he turned to look at the bathroom after pushing his glasses onto his nose, waiting for Draco. A smile slid across his face as he waited. He had the feeling that if he acted any differently, it would only create more problems for them. 

“How are you feeling?” Draco queried, his voice like a coreless wand.

Harry’s eyes landed on Draco as he stepped through the doorway; his skin was unusually pale against the towel wrapped around his waist. He clearly hadn’t slept yet, if the sag to his eyelids and too-tense stance he had taken were anything to go by. Harry’s smile dropped quickly into a frown, his brow furrowing in confusion. Pale hair wet, Draco looked like a drowned cat. It was such an odd image next to how well he presented during the day. 

“Come back to bed.”

The hesitation was evident; Draco was trying to avoid Harry. “I need to empty the bath.”

“Then empty it and come back,” Harry insisted. When Draco turned to go back into the bathroom, he took a deep breath, steeling his nerves. Draco was going to be near impossible to talk to, and Harry needed to keep his wits about him, be patient if he was going to get through that ass-stubborn streak. 

The sound of the water draining reached Harry’s ears and he waited, time stretching on. He sighed heavily; draining the bath did _not_ take that long. Harry knew Draco was dealing with the previous night the only way he knew how, but this sort of treatment hurt him more than the failed sex had. 

“Draco… now, what are you doing?”

“I need to put the towels away.”

“Eleanor can do that later. Come back to bed,” Harry said, trying to keep his tone even. “Need your help, anyway.” He wanted to sit up; the ensuing battle of wills was going to be long. 

Again Draco returned, a new towel around his waist. He failed to move from the doorway, as though the distance provided some sort of protection. “How are you feeling?” There was an underlying tone to the question that struck Harry, a blow to the chest. It was tense and vulnerable in a way that crawled under his skin, leaving a burning trail right to his heart.

“I’ll be brilliant when you lie down with me and get some sleep.”

Draco balked immediately. “You need a bath.”

It was a fair point, and as much as Harry wanted to argue, he couldn’t think of any real reason. The cool stickiness of lube clung to his skin uncomfortably, so he sighed, saying, “Alright.” Knowing one wrong step would fracture everything, he had to be very careful. He finally had the chance to be a source of strength for Draco, and Harry was categorically not going to ruin that, not when Draco had held him together enough times over the months. 

Watching Draco return to the bathroom, Harry relieved his bladder, waiting patiently for his bath water to be ready. The sound of the water rushing into the tub slowly became less forceful as it filled. It had to be ready by then. 

“You know, it helps if I’m in the same room as the bath if you expect me to have one,” Harry called out, forcing a tone of amusement. Trying to act as though everything was normal was difficult. Harry knew how well Draco read him, and he feared even in Draco’s state, he’d be able to work out what he was doing.

Draco was silent as he entered the bedroom, picking Harry up, his hands gelid; Harry’s skin prickled in slight discomfort. He looked awful, Harry noted, much like when he had been sleeping in the chair after Ginny’s spell had been removed.

After using the toilet and being cleaned up, the touches from Draco as careful and apologetic as they had been when Harry could barely tolerate skin-to-skin contact, Draco lifted him again, to put him in the bath.

“Morning,” Harry said, kissing Draco softly. A shiver ran through Draco’s body as he lowered Harry into the warm water. 

_Normal._ Harry had no need to remind himself to keep things normal, but it steadied him. The washing began, each touch so gentle it was more like Draco was cleaning paper-thin porcelain rather than Harry’s body; and he refused to make eye contact with Harry.

Reaching out, Harry ran his fingers across Draco’s hand in a brief caress, a reminder he was there, that things were all right.

“Teddy liked the garden. Andromeda and me watched him chase butterflies around. He made his hair look like their wings,” Harry said.

A smile flickered on Draco’s face.

“He wondered why you left, but he understood when we told him you had work to do. He likes that you fixed his doll's arm.”

Another smile, gone as quickly as the previous, livened Draco’s face just a bit.

“You should eat with us next time. Andromeda would like it, too.”

Draco nodded.

“Hermione told me what you said about her and Ron's marriage problems and keeping me out of it. Thank you. I really can't deal with that. They're my best friends, but... I appreciate it.” Harry felt like he was trying to bottle smoke the way Draco remained silent. He hadn’t had to deal with Draco refusing to speak to him for a while, and it was a bit unnerving. Understandable in the circumstances, though. “I owe you a lot, you know. For everything.” Harry smiled, his fingers absently brushing against Draco’s hand.

A barely-comprehensible mutter of ‘my pleasure’ followed Draco clearing his throat. 

“Mmm,” Harry hummed, a reflexive, superfluous noise to buy himself a moment to think. “Draco?”

“Hmm?” Draco continued washing Harry, every bit of his attention dedicated to his task. 

“Look at me.”

Draco looked up. Harry hesitated for a moment, but he wanted to kiss Draco, and those deft hands cleaning his cock were definitely stimulating him despite the inner battle he was having. Harry hated that he didn’t know what to do, that he was guessing, hoping that his decisions were the right thing. 

He pressed a gentle kiss to Draco’s lips, noticing the flinch immediately. Draco’s lips parted, though, and Harry deepened the kiss, trying to show what telling would make trite and meaningless. He reached out and took hold of Draco’s still-damp hair, his tongue a promise that he wouldn’t leave, and his lips the reassurance that he still loved Draco, that there was no reason to beat himself up over something that, while it could have been avoided, was just another one of the things they had faced together and made it through. The failure to have sex with Draco and his resulting breakdown had changed things again for Harry. Draco had always been so sure of himself, had only ever looked out for Harry’s best interests, and he had made a mistake, one that was causing him a lot of pain and guilt, but that seemed to deepen what Harry felt for him. It was as though Draco had used his hands to bury himself inside Harry permanently. That he could be so loved by another person, when he had been cast aside by those who had supposed to have loved him, made all of the trauma worth it. It was odd, he thought, that something so painful could chain Draco to him irrevocably. There were no pleas for reassurance like Harry had made, but Draco’s bearing, his absence from interaction, proved that he needed it, as much as Harry had once. Knowing he needed to give that back, that he was capable of giving that back, could be strong for both of them in heart, when his body was incapable of it, Harry felt like he _had_ to give that back to Draco, show that he could protect him as much as Draco had and still was protecting Harry. 

The flannel dropped into the water, and Harry could feel himself being taken into Draco. A tentative hand moved toward his erection, almost as though asking for permission, but Harry didn’t want that. His kissing Draco wasn’t about Harry; it was about showing Draco that _nothing_ had changed for him. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss, his lips still against Draco’s as he said, “I just want to touch you.” He reached out and traced the sides of Draco’s neck with this thumbs, letting them settle into the dip of those enticing collarbones. “I don’t get to touch you enough.” _You always get to touch me…_

Harry moved his hands along Draco’s shoulders, the sensations running through his palms and fingertips. Goosebumps broke out over Draco’s skin, as he worked his hands across the straight shoulders, then back to Draco’s chest. Draco’s flesh, Harry had noted, had always been warm and smooth to the touch, and he’d loved that about it, but now it was cold, and a distinctly uncomfortable feeling settled within him at that – this felt nothing like he was used to. Harry wondered if Draco had taken a cold bath – that was the only thing Harry could think of to explain why he was so chilled to the touch.

Arms too tired to continue, Harry finally dropped them back to the water. Draco had simply watched as Harry’s hands had moved over his body, and Harry got the feeling Draco was afraid he’d never feel that again. He could have just been imagining it, but he didn’t think so. Remembering how he had felt when he’d reached his limit, Harry could empathise with the insecurity he knew Draco was bound to be feeling. The need to remind Draco of what he meant to Harry was strong. Leaning forward, he kissed those pale lips again, slower this time. 

This man, who had always been guarded around Harry, was willing to be seen at his weakest, was giving him the power, trusting Harry not to take advantage of it, to break him completely, if Harry chose. There was nothing Harry wouldn’t do to protect Draco and preserve what they had built so far. It was there that Harry realised how equal they really were, each piece of them sliding together until they matched up to create a whole, not just the edges and shapes they had been moulded into. Draco had never seemed to need Harry before, but he did now, and if anything, it was just another one of the ways Draco showed Harry how much he was loved. The devotion Draco had always evinced, however oddly, before was perfectly clear for the love it was. They could be strong for one another in equal measure, and neither one of them would take it for granted or toss it aside. Harry could see himself waking up with Draco every day for the rest of his life, and wanted that. Letting what they had go now would be like removing his own heart and watching as it ceased to beat; living without Draco was not an option. 

Harry was silent through the rest of the bath, touching Draco when he was able, and afterward, he made sure Draco stayed with him. He had a feeling if he let him get away, the guilt and whatever else he was feeling would end up doing more harm than necessary. Once he was dry and had cleaned his teeth, Harry lay with Draco, his arms wrapped around his lover’s body in a secure embrace. 

Sunlight had spread across the room, tendrils of light licking at their naked skin. However sleepy Harry was, he knew the moment he drifted off, Draco would be out of reach again, and he couldn’t be having with that. It didn’t take long for Draco to bestir himself, the excuse that Harry needed pyjamas giving him a pretext to prolong his absence from the bed. He almost seemed to wander aimlessly, then finally pulled out a pair of dark pyjama pants and dressed Harry. Draco, too, put on a pair of jeans. Harry declined a shirt; he had been comfortable naked, lying in bed, but Draco seemed determined to run off at the first opportunity.

Mrs Prout arrived with breakfast and they ate together. Harry tried to keep Draco engaged, but all he got were brief nods or minute facial expressions that had he not grown used to in the last nine months, would have driven him up the wall trying to interpret. Harry felt oddly like he was micromanaging Draco, the way he had to make his requests – almost instructions – specific. Eventually, after much clarifying, they ended up on the sofa, the TV on and a film playing in the background. Settled comfortably, Harry leaned into Draco’s side, his shoulder resting under Draco’s arm – which was curled around Harry’s back. Draco had moved Harry’s legs so that they rested over his. He was glad that he had talked Draco into not wearing a shirt, either. The feel of Draco’s skin against his was far better than any material.

He was content. And while the film Draco had selected was entertaining enough, Harry found himself drifting off to sleep, despite his best efforts to stay awake.

**~*~*~*~**

Guilt, heavy and thick, clung to Draco’s skin, almost the way Potter was. He hadn’t been able to scrub it away with his bath. If he’d chosen a different position, he wouldn’t have hurt Potter – the one thing above all others he had sworn to himself he wouldn’t do. And even though he’d been careful, it hadn’t been enough; Potter had still bled, and Draco had hurt him, still been asked to stop. How Potter could still want to be near him, Draco didn’t know. He didn’t deserve that, not when he’d hurt Potter. He didn’t deserve Potter to want to be with him still. The absolute trust he placed in Draco had been betrayed, and it was beyond his comprehension that it still seemed to persist.

He found himself torn between slow-pooling dread and blissful relief. If Potter didn’t wake up – literally and figuratively – with the outrage and bitter sense of betrayal he should have been feeling already, which Draco shied from even imagining, then he would probably plunge headlong into insistence that they should try intercourse again. 

He wasn’t sure which he dreaded more. Potter _seemed_ unconcerned; as if Draco’s transgression were of no more moment than inadvertently dripping ink on one of his favourite shirts, but for all he knew there to be no more malice or duplicity in Potter than there was in a newborn, he simply _couldn’t_ force his mind to bend around the concept that perhaps he really _was_ as undisturbed by it as he appeared. Or, at least, as he appeared to want Draco to believe he was. Or genuinely was. Potter had become aroused during his bath, in defiance of all reason and probability; Draco had scarcely believed it, though it had set a tidal wave of sheer relief that would have been enough to bring him to his knees had he not already been kneeling crashing through him. Perhaps Potter really did view it as forgivable; perhaps it was one of his perplexing twists of feeling and reasoning, one of those flashes of grace that snatched Draco’s breath away and made his heart stutter and race. But if he did, he would surely coax and cajole and probably ultimately compel the second attempt Draco had so rashly – and he cursed himself mentally _again_ for his idiocy – promised in the event of an initial failure; and reeling from the sheer horror of having hurt the other man, Draco wasn’t even certain that he would be physically capable of abiding by his unwise agreement. 

He realised that his thoughts had come full circle again, and scowled at the television. He could think of no way to make amends, despite hours in that steadily cooling water from which Potter had summoned him, and all the apology in the world remained pitifully inadequate. He had briefly entertained a wild idea of obtaining an unlicensed Time-Turner and preventing the catastrophe, by force if necessary, but had discarded it. Potter had odd notions of appropriate behaviour, and Draco was fairly certain that he would consider that wholly unacceptable. And the risks were simply too great: for all he knew, he would end up making matters worse than they already were. A different disaster might have resulted in the rage and recriminations he couldn’t quite keep himself from fearing may still be to come.

Though, in a way, the rage and recriminations he shrank from contemplating might have been easier to deal with. Draco _understood_ wrath and retribution. He knew what to do with them and how to respond to them. This… mercy? forgiveness?... whatever it was left him adrift and edgy. 

Potter shifted slightly in his arms, overturning his train of thought in an instant. 

The faint hint of bergamot and fresh hay, Potter, smelt good, Draco noted. He still needed a bit of feeding up, but his muscle tone was still reasonable, and intensifying the physiotherapy and massage could help further with that. 

Grumbling unintelligibly in his sleep, as he was wont to do, Potter tried to bury his face in Draco’s armpit. Resettling him with absent-minded tenderness, Draco thought he might, despite his profound hatred of being watched, play for Potter again; he had seemed to like it, and there was, more now than ever, nothing that Draco could imagine being unwilling to do for him. 

A knock sounded at the door, and Draco’s head snapped up as it opened and Molly Weasley walked through, her knuckles still against the wood. Draco froze immediately.

“What the _hell_ are you doing in here?” he hissed, plunged abruptly into an agony of mortification. He and Potter were in a position that shouldn’t have been seen by her, and she hadn’t even the basic decency to leave the room or avert her eyes.

“Oh, goodness. I-I didn't expect—” She cleared her throat. “How is he doing?”

Fury at the woman’s intrusion coursed through Draco, but he couldn’t move or remonstrate without disturbing Potter. His fingers itched to cover the other man, but there wasn’t a blanket within reach. “He’s _asleep._ “

Weasley’s mother smoothed her robes in discomfort. “I do apologise, Mr Malfoy. I wasn't aware that... you two—” She stopped. “I am worried about him. He's like a son to me.” Her earnest tone did little to assuage the heat of anger.

Draco glared at the woman, fantasising about cursing her with a ruptured uterus or liquefying her ovaries, when Potter began to stir. “With all due respect, Mrs Weasley—” _which is precisely none, you stupid, fat, ugly mare_ “—this is _not_ a good time. Perhaps if you Floo or owl ahead before your next visit…?”

Potter grunted softly. “’S wrong?”

Draco levelled a frosty stare at Mrs Weasley over the top of his head. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“Who?” Potter asked, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

Biting his tongue against what he wanted to say, Draco replied, “Mrs Weasley.”

Potter turned to squint at her. “Glasses, please?”

Draco’s skin was crawling in discomfort, but he made no move to dislodge Potter from where he was as he reached for and handed over those repellent glasses – wondering again whether Potter had contemplated having his vision fixed – and wished that doing something spectacularly gruesome to her wouldn’t grieve Potter. That woman was seeing something between them that she shouldn’t have. He neither liked, nor trusted her.

“Hello, Mrs Weasley. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your owl,” Potter said sleepily. “Have a seat.”

Draco continued to gaze coldly at her, appalled by her lack of manners and respect for their modesty. She wrung her hands, obviously wanting to mother Potter, but unable to with Draco’s arm around him. Her presumption made Draco furious. 

When Potter’s gaze shifted, Draco looked down at him.

“Will you help me sit up?”

Draco nodded tightly, noting the apologetic expression on Potter’s face, followed quickly by a barely audible, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t acknowledge the apology; instead, he gathered a quilt and shirts for himself and Potter. He put his on, then helped Potter into his, laying the quilt across Potter’s legs. Disdainfully he looked at Mrs Weasley, then returned his attention to Potter, affecting as much calm as possible. “I’m going to ask Mrs Prout to put lunch back and serve tea.”

Potter nodded.

Turning away, Draco palmed his wand, pressed the button to summon Mrs Prout, and made his way to the anteroom. The moment the door had closed, the faint shimmering of the division of the magical dead zone out of sight, Draco intoned, “ _Expecto Patronum,_ “ and sent his mongoose for Weasley. It flickered in the corridor for a moment and seemed to disappear as though a gust of wind had whipped it away.

Mrs Prout was characteristically obliging as Draco requested tea instead of lunch, and he stood, waiting for Weasley to arrive. Mrs Prout shuffled passed him with a tea service, offering an eloquent look as she left the room – he made a mental note to increase her salary again: she really was a treasure beyond price – and eventually Weasley’s thundering footsteps belted down the hallway. Draco reset his expression.

“What's the big deal? I was talking names for the baby with Hermione,” Weasley said, panting.

“Your mother has chosen to grace us with her presence, Weasley,” Draco stated, leaving it to Weasley to draw the relevant conclusions.

“You weren't… uh... _busy _, were you?” Weasley’s face was flaming red.__

__Draco restrained a scowl with an effort, but did not bother even to attempt to keep the conviction that he was talking to a confirmed idiot out of his tone. “Potter was _asleep_.”_ _

__Weasley scratched his neck._ _

__“Do I need to explain the concepts of privacy and intrusion to you in words of one syllable, Weasley?”_ _

__“No, Malfoy,” Weasley replied. “She doesn't know about you two. Well, I suppose she does now if you were asleep with him... What do you want me to do? We can make her take an Unbreakable.” Weasley shrugged, appeared mollifying. His loyalty to Potter stretched further than even Draco had anticipated if he was willing to shut his own mother up with an Unbreakable Vow: Draco was mildly – very mildly – impressed._ _

__Grey eyes narrowed. “She can’t swear it to me.” He waited for Weasley to dispute that. There was no practical reason, but it would have been a political misstep._ _

__“She can swear it to me,” he said, apparently either more politically aware than Draco had ever credited him with being or simply in the habit of not questioning things he was told in a firm, clear voice. Draco suspected the latter. “Look, I know what will happen if someone finds out. Harry doesn't want that. I don't have to like you to know that he deserves to be happy, and he is with you, for whatever reason. When she leaves, you can do it.”_ _

__The idea had merit, Draco decided, and he regarded Weasley measuredly for a long moment. “You sincerely think you can talk her into it?”_ _

__“She'll have no choice. Unless she wants to piss Harry off. He won't hear a thing against you. And if she doesn't, I know what you're capable of. And I love my mum. I’ll talk her round.”_ _

__Draco was faintly gratified, and nodded decisively._ _

__“You can tell her about it when she emerges, then. Unless you prefer to join them. Tea has just been served.”_ _

__Weasley shook his head, and scored another point by saying, “Harry doesn't need to worry about it.”_ _

__Draco nodded again. “Then wait here. I'll locate Dawlish and re-set the wards. I clearly can't rely on either the Auror division or my own staff to ensure that we don't receive unexpected guests.”_ _

__Closing the door, Draco left in search of Dawlish. His goal gave him something to ponder other than Weasley’s mother and the unpleasant things he wished to inflict upon her. Dawlish made the appropriate note about the adjustments Draco intended to make to the wards, and dispatched his own Patronus to notify the on-duty Aurors accordingly. Draco liked Dawlish: the man didn’t ask suffer fools and had a gruesome sense of humour, and had been totally uninvolved in the various investigations and criminal proceedings into and against the Malfoys in the aftermath of the war. The relevant adjustments having been made to the Manor’s defensive magics, orders were issued to the house-elves that _all_ visitors would be dealt with by the mistress of the house or Mrs Prout if Draco himself were in Potter’s suite, or in the absence of all three of them, by one of the Aurors; but categorically _not_ simply permitted to roam the house unchecked._ _

__A silvery terrier burst through the wall, and Weasley’s voice, informing Draco that he was ready, filled the room. Reasonably assured that any more unwanted guests, at least those discourteous enough not to Floo or owl ahead, would be cut off before they could cause Potter any undue distress, Draco returned to the anteroom._ _

__Weasley’s mother, when Draco arrived, was irritatingly huffy, but Weasley, through strength of persuasion of which Draco never would have thought him capable, made it clear that it was either this, or suffer Potter’s displeasure: his unsubtle hinting that the other alternatives would be distinctly unpleasant seemed to give her pause to consider the notion and keep her tongue in check as she reluctantly allowed Draco to cast the spell._ _

__Weasley saw his mother out, and Draco hesitated a moment before gathering himself and walking through the bedroom door, resisting a strong temptation to retreat to the corner of the library in which even his own mother couldn’t disturb him. Potter looked up from his hands, his lips curving into a smile that made Draco want to cry, which vexed and bewildered him even as he stifled the impulse under heavy layers of habitual self-control. It felt like absolution, perfect and undeserved, even as it had been unasked and unlooked-for. He had to halt for a moment in the doorway to reassert some sort of command over himself against the rush of mixed emotion – relief, disbelief, confusion, shame, guilt, joy – that threatened to overwhelm him. Their gazes met for a long moment, and Draco took a steadying breath._ _

__

____

**~*~*~*~**

“Hey,” Harry said, eying Draco’s stiff posture. He hadn’t really expected Draco to return, but now that he had, he couldn’t let him go again. The privacy with Mrs Weasley had been fine, but it hadn’t been required for Harry’s peace of mind. But that was Draco’s way of coping with what she had seen.

“How are you feeling?” Draco asked automatically, shoulders squared.

“Fine. You?”

Draco blinked in surprise. “Perfectly well. Do I need to have a quiet word with her husband?”

Harry laughed. “No.” He paused for a moment, then sighed. “She just said the same thing from her letter, really: apologising for Ginny. Told me a bit about how the Ministry is dealing with it. That's all.” Harry had learned more about the Ministry’s ‘rehabilitation techniques’ than he wanted to know, and realised Draco had been through the same thing: intensive psychoeducation therapy, not having any thoughts that were his any more, and myriad other magic-specific methods that Harry would rather not think about. His anger had flared at Mrs Weasley’s explanation, but not on Ginny’s behalf – on Draco’s. Now, more than ever, Harry understood how Draco had become the man he was, and it was unsettling. “Come here,” Harry said. Draco was still standing at the door, the dark wood cocked open as though he planned to flee the moment Harry dropped his guard.

Draco hesitated.

Harry sighed. “I’m not saying please,” he stated. When Draco made no move to join him, he insisted, “Would you get over here?”

Draco blinked, but he crossed after closing the door behind him methodically – no doubt another way to prolong the distance between them – his expression uncertain again. Harry wondered what he would have to do in order to prove that he had no intention of attempting to take the weakness that Draco had shown him out of love and exploiting it. He just wanted to be wrapped up like they had been before Mrs Weasley had seen fit to interrupt them so rudely. It was certain to Harry that Draco didn’t like people to see any intimacy between them, but there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. If he could have spared Draco that on top of everything else, he would have, gladly, without thought of potential consequences. 

“Sit.” Those grey eyes shifted to Draco’s chair, and Harry sighed. “Over here.”

Though Draco did as he was told, he was still visibly edgy. “Now, where were we before Mrs Weasley's arrival? Oh, right. Would you mind?” he asked, pointing to his legs. Again Draco complied, his actions tense and mechanical like he was under Imperius, and as though Harry was no more than wet parchment, and Draco were afraid he might fall apart at the slightest bit of pressure. Harry understood, and he was trying to be patient, but to him, what had happened the previous night was not something to dwell on – make into an issue that would keep Draco behaving like a beaten animal to cope with his own feelings about the situation. 

Leaning in, Harry kissed Draco softly. “Thank you,” he said against pale lips. “I’m sorry she burst in.” He was amused that two Weasleys had interrupted them, each occasion having been one where they were in a position that was not for others to see. “I know that was… awkward for you.”

Draco shrugged uncomfortably. “She won’t do it again.”

“You didn’t hex her, did you?” Harry asked, trying to keep his tone light, not honestly concerned if Draco had. While Harry knew it was possible that Draco had hexed her, he also knew that Draco was aware how much the Weasleys meant to him; he trusted that Draco wouldn’t do anything actually harmful to her, no matter how he felt about the situation. The wounded expression that met the question, though, reminded Harry that he had to keep some semblance of normality if he was going to get through to the other man. For once, an echo of Draco’s own words flooded Harry’s thoughts: ‘because there’s time and to spare’. 

“No,” came Draco’s tense reply.

“I didn't think you would, you know. I honestly couldn't have blamed you if you had, though,” Harry affirmed, then leant forward and kissed Draco again. 

Draco huffed.

“What? I care about her, but what if we'd been doing something else?” _I sure as hell don’t want her seeing that; it’s for us._

Then Draco's tentative fingers reached out to stroke his arm gently, and every inch of Harry’s skin lit up, the blaze of touch like hope delivered when most needed. If Draco was still willing to reach out, however hesitantly, it meant he was trying to cope with things, was trying to meet Harry halfway; and that was all Harry wanted. He knew that small movement must have felt like miles in the crossing. It felt like breath, life. Harry had been so long without living and aching to breathe another person; and now that he had it, he could think only of each touch and caress he was given from Draco as his very breath, his life.

“Mmm. That feels nice,” Harry said, his voice a tendril of desire that reached out and guided his lips to Draco’s, holding them together. The answering press was gentle, a feather-light touch that he felt cheated by; he wanted more. “I’m not going to break; kiss me,” Harry whispered, making eye contact. The hesitance from Draco fuelled his determination to keep things as they had been. Reaching out, he twisted his fingers into Draco’s hair and pulled their lips together again, feeling the relieved sag in Draco’s body at his direction. If that was what it took to make Draco happy then Harry was more than willing to be the one who became the lamp to light their way through the darkness together. Then Draco’s mouth and tongue moved against Harry’s with considerably less restraint. 

Harry reached for the hem of Draco’s shirt, his fingers trailing against hot skin as he lifted it. Prompt understood, Draco’s lips left Harry’s and the fabric became just a lump on one corner of the sofa.

“We should go to the bed.” The words were soft waves and ocean breeze that danced across Draco’s exposed skin; he tensed, but seemed to regain his bearings and began to move, lifting Harry’s body as he stood. Arousal began its slow burn, an invisible tongue of flames licking Harry’s skin as he wrapped his arms around Draco’s shoulders. Not for the first time, Harry noticed that Draco’s shoulders were sturdier than they had been when Draco had first started treating him.

Harry occupied his mouth by letting his tongue and lips roam Draco’s tense neck. He nipped at the pale skin, a satisfied smile on his lips as a faint red blossomed in his wake. Draco lowered him to the bed.

“Help me,” Harry requested. His chest rose and fell quickly, his body ready for Draco.

Normally nimble fingers faltered as they removed Harry’s pyjamas, his shirt lifted over his head. Draco took unnecessary care folding Harry’s clothes, then he removed his own, doing the same.

“Lie down with me.” The directions seemed to be working, even if Draco’s movements seemed to have taken on a mechanical precision; he wasn’t arguing, though, and Harry hoped that once lingering nerves passed, their interactions would be back to normal. 

Harry moved his own hand to his taut, hard cock as Draco lowered himself next to Harry. His cheeks flushed at the desires racing through his thoughts: Draco’s touch never failed to excite the most excruciating, taunting pleasure that Harry had known. Vivid fantasies whirled in Harry’s thoughts. The sensations that they were able to derive from one another’s bodies would have to suffice, and considering Draco’s only true emotional outlet lay in giving and receiving pleasure, this was the only thing Harry could think of that would adequately convey the meaning his words failed to do.

“I’d really like you to make me wail, now.” Harry looked directly into those cloudy eyes. 

Draco blinked for a moment, then he slithered down Harry’s body. As his heart rate stuttered rapidly, Harry watched as his legs were draped over Draco’s shoulders, his arse tensing in anticipation. Harry could, for the first time, see Draco’s pale head between his legs as that wicked tongue moved against him. Draco’s hair tickled the insides of his thighs and his balls, his grey eyes open as he focussed all of his energy on giving Harry pleasure. The feel of Draco’s tongue moving against him ripped a strangled moan from Harry, his heart beating faster and faster as the scent of sweat filled the room. It was a slow tease, almost tentative, as the offering of his touch had been moments earlier. All of the raw endings of his nerves ignited with each swipe. The sight of Draco’s head between his legs, his arse a tantalising curve from the bed, and Harry’s body at his mercy, was far more arousing than he could fathom. Draco’s breath brushed across Harry’s skin, and pleasure blazed through him. 

“That’s… good,” Harry moaned slowly. His mouth formed the praise on his lips, but Draco’s tongue plunged into him, cutting off further coherent utterances. The room was filled with a jumble of sounds that Harry found difficult to contain, each one seemingly pushed from him as that slick muscle moved in and out of him. 

Taking hold of Draco’s hair, Harry pulled it roughly, asserting his need for more. “Use your fingers,” he breathed. He was met by Draco’s startled blink, his body frozen against Harry’s for a long moment. Harry wasn’t sure whether Draco would comply, but Harry hoped he would. 

Draco shifted, resting Harry’s legs against the bed again, spreading them. His mouth covered Harry’s cock, consuming him. One finger prodded at his arsehole, slowly breaching the muscles that were tensing and relaxing with desire. 

“You can – ah – do better than that,” Harry managed to say, his breath coming in sharp, jagged puffs. Draco’s mouth moved lower on Harry’s cock until the head was nestled against the back of Draco’s throat and undulating muscle sent ripples of fire across Harry’s skin. One finger wasn’t enough.

Needing more, needing his body to be full, Harry reached for Draco’s wrist and wrapped his fingers round it. “ _That’s_ what I meant.”

Draco made some noise that drove Harry completely to distraction, another moan yanked from him. “You can do more,” he reassured, his hold on Draco’s wrist releasing. 

Watching and feeling as Draco removed his finger from Harry, then worked it into his mouth alongside Harry’s cock, sent a shiver of indescribable sensation through him. It was good. Seeing that Draco enjoyed the taste of his arse was one of the most erotic and confusing things to Harry, but he couldn’t argue or question. His mind was covered with mist, flavourful and heavy, that he felt throughout his whole body. He knew it was just tasting him and Draco in the air, but that didn’t change the way he felt.

Being penetrated again made him shudder in delight. The onslaught of sensations sent him reeling, like waves rolling over one another, fighting to reach the shore. He couldn’t look any more, his eyelids shuttering closed at the spark of Draco’s fingers pressing firmly against that place inside him. Draco’s throat was snug, hot. Every bob of his head was deliberate, a motion to draw the pleasure out; Harry was ready to deliver the evidence, watch as he was driven into oblivion. 

Harry opened his eyes and looked down his body, listening. Draco’s throat worked around him. It was soft suction, varying squelching noises that excited Harry more. When he thought he couldn’t descend any further into madness, Draco looked at him. Harry wasn’t sure if it was the firm pressure inside his arse, or the addictive sensations that ebbed and flowed with Draco’s mouth around his cock that made his body snap; the deliberate moan that vibrated through his cockhead was the final spark needed. He was spinning.

“Fuck,” Harry hissed. His body twisted with sensation as though Draco was wringing him dry. He dropped his head against the bed, panting with each swipe of tongue and firm thrust of fingers as he came. 

For a long time, the only thing Harry could comprehend was the rapid pulse in his chest and neck. As the waves of pleasure subsided, he felt Draco withdraw his fingers, and his mouth slowly easing up Harry’s softening cock. 

Harry glared at Draco, who was licking his lips. “I like hearing you. But I don’t want you to force it.” 

Draco snorted in response, his tongue flat against Harry’s balls, teasing. Harry shuddered, trembling as Draco did it again. Draco was obsessive with the way he continued to lavish attention to Harry’s body. 

“Going to give me a tongue bath?” Harry asked, grinning.

“Hmmm,” Draco hummed in response, the tone like he hadn’t thought of doing so, but the idea had merit. 

And Harry, stricken with the desire to fulfil Draco’s needs, looked at him and said, “I was just thinking that you'd look good on your knees, arse in my face, so I could suck the back of your balls.”

A faint pink, that Harry found adorable, coloured Draco’s cheeks. 

“What? Not a good idea?”

“When you’re better.”

Harry tried to hide his disappointment by attempting to smile. “What do you want?”

Draco slid his tongue along the line where Harry’s inner thigh and groin connected, rubbing his cock against Harry’s calf. 

“Wouldn’t you prefer something a little more… wet?” Harry asked, licking his lips.

The licks didn’t end, and Harry, his mouth already watering with the desire to taste Draco, said, “I want your cock in my mouth.”

Stilling, Draco looked at him, blinking slowly. He moved up Harry’s body and lounged on his side the same way he had the first time Harry had sucked his cock. With care, Harry was positioned, and he flattened his palm against Draco’s hip, his mouth already seeking its goal. His tongue moved quickly, desire to bring Draco pleasure paramount to anything else. The weight of Draco’s cock against his tongue was gratifying and he moaned around the swollen head, his tongue dancing along the hard length. 

It didn’t take him long to find a rhythm that worked. Draco’s fingers were against Harry’s jaw, his touch gentle and encouraging. Harry liked the way Draco seemed fascinated with his mouth; it made him want to bend Draco to the pleasure he knew he could bring. Wanting to touch, feel the way he affected Draco, he reached out, taking Draco’s balls. He wrapped his fingers around them gently, his fingertips brushing against the soft skin as he lowered his mouth. Draco’s breath had quickened gradually. Harry knew he was about to come, and rather than let him pull away, he kept going. The first spurt of semen against his tongue was bearable, the following one too much. Draco managed to pull away, but Harry still had his balls, so he couldn’t go far. Warm droplets splattered Harry’s face and lips. Swallowing the bitter come in his mouth, Harry slid his wet lips across Draco’s cock, his tongue darting out and tasting his lover again. His eyes moved to Draco’s face. 

Draco’s eyelids slid open and took Harry’s appearance in. Knowing he had Draco’s full attention, he scraped the rolling strips of come off his face and sucked it from his fingers. A glazed expression came over Draco’s face as Harry opened his mouth and sucked the white remnants from his fingers, fighting the urge to grimace at the flavour.

Harry smiled, satisfied that he had brought that look to his lover’s face.

****

~*~*~*~

The days following their first attempt at sex, Harry spent the majority of his time with Draco, trying to ease Draco back into enjoying his body without fear of rejection or reproach. Harry hadn’t forced any conversation about it; he hadn’t needed to. The reaction had told him everything he needed to know, and he was gentle, initiating as much contact as he could while they were together. Baths had been most useful for that, and things had finally seemed to become comfortable for Draco again, his confidence with the sexual side of their relationship seeming to have returned. After lunch, Draco had left to run some tests on Ron, and Harry sat in bed, watching films to pass the time. He was dozing when the door opened and Draco entered the bedroom.

“These have arrived for you.” 

“What are they?” 

“A package through Muggle post apparently from Petunia Dursley and a letter by owl from Praie. No magical residue on either of them.” 

Harry was only mildly interested. “What does it say? What’s in it?” 

Draco stared at him, apparently appalled. “I have no idea. They’re addressed to _you_ , Potter.” 

“I – um – like my privacy and all, but you know you really don’t count, right? Anything you want to look at— I just mean that if you ever get curious and go through my things again, for whatever reason, I’m okay with that.” Harry flushed.

Draco blinked several times, then nodded, his voice stilted as he spoke. “You are welcome to investigate anything and everything in the Manor that isn’t someone else’s or dangerous.”

It was obvious to Harry from Draco’s tone and the surprised hesitance in which he spoke that he was about to leave again. When Draco reached out to hand Harry the letter from Praie, he took hold of Draco’s wrist, caressing the underside with his fingertips, a promise that he wouldn’t press, but that Draco’s company was appreciated. If Draco still slipped away even after Harry had made his desires known, he wouldn’t push. He knew it couldn’t be easy to have Harry spend most of their initial time as Healer and patient together hearing how much Harry disliked the press and everyone else who felt like they should know every detail about his life, but Draco was different. Draco was going to be his fianc? when Harry proposed – he already had Draco’s statement to confirm they should marry, so there was nothing he felt he needed to hide from Draco. It would be their lives, not just Harry’s. 

Harry finally released his hold on Draco, opening the letter and reading it quickly. “He’s sold the house already.”

The distraction of Harry’s statement was enough that Draco’s expression changed to one of approval.

“I'm not surprised. It's a nice property in a nice village. Muggles, presumably?”

“Mmm. Young couple,” Harry replied absently.

Draco hummed, “Good. That's a thing less for you to worry about.”

“Mmm,” Harry agreed, accepting the parcel Draco was holding outstretched to him. Harry set it in his lap and unwrapped the paper on the outside. There was an envelope on top, his name written in a familiar scrawl. Harry’s brown furrowed, and he opened the envelope, reading the note inside: ‘here are some old family things from your mother and grandparents’. 

“Did you do this?” he asked, looking at Draco.

“No, I did not,” he said immediately. “At least, not that I know of. When you tell me what it is, I'll know better.”

“Aunt Petunia sent some things that belonged to my mother and my grandparents.”

“Hmph. No. I've been nowhere near her.” Draco’s expression became ominous.

Harry knew who was responsible for it with no more information than that. “Your mum, then.” He sighed, wondering why she had contacted them again.

“Possibly. Do you want me to rein her in?” Draco asked, scowling.

“I've already told you. The Dursleys... “ Harry shook his head, knowing he wasn’t replying to Draco’s question. _What am I supposed to say? Your mum is upsetting me by continuing to… threaten? bother?... my relatives?_ “I appreciate the things of my mother's, but that family is... I don't want to deal with them. I don’t want her to have to deal with them.” He opened the lid to the small box and looked at the meagre contents. 

“Shall I leave you to it, with that?”

“No,” Harry said. “Unless you have things to do.” There was hope that with Harry giving Draco the option, he wouldn’t feel like he had to, and would make a decision based on what made him happy. Briefly, Harry wondered if he would have to watch everything he said for the rest of their lives, or whether Draco would eventually know that Harry wanted him around but wasn’t going to cling. 

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

Harry looked up. “You say that a lot, you know. Then we end up doing something that takes the entire evening.” He smirked.

Draco shrugged as he walked around the bed, taking a seat on his side. “I don't tend to be working on volatile potions these days, and the counter-curse is ready. There's not a great deal that _needs_ doing. I've been updating your records and writing a short curse handbook for the Aurors. There are altogether too many MDms in the case reports.”

The smile that lit Harry’s face was brilliant. Draco had told him about his day without having to be asked. “Lots of people still fancy themselves Death Eaters. Some are just stupid.”

“They'd have to be.”

“It’s good you’re helping, though,” Harry said, leaning in for a kiss. 

“Seems silly to have the brave heroes going into these situations inadequately equipped. It's bad enough that they have to follow the rules. I mean, the people they're chasing don't. That's sort of the point. It'd be a great deal easier to catch these people if you used the same tricks they use.”

“I know. Else I wouldn't be like this.” Harry laughed, trying to make light of it. “Just glad I'm not going back.”

“Yes,” Draco replied, a familiar expression, one that usually accompanied Harry making a joke about his circumstances, clouding his face.

Clearing his throat, Harry returned his attention to the box, sifting the contents. There were a few photos of his mother as a child, a set of cufflinks, and a few other miscellaneous items that he had no history for. He looked at them for a long time, assuming, from the limited information given, that the cufflinks belonged to his grandfather. Having those few items from his family felt good. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome – to have those pieces of where he’d come from reminded him that he was part of something else, that he hadn’t lost all of where he’d come from when his parents had been killed. Draco might be his future, but they were his past, and there was a sense of peace that accompanied that. He didn’t dare hope that any of them were alive, so he kept that to himself.

“Will you put these in my box?”

“Certainly.” Draco rose from the bed and collected the parcel from Harry’s lap, carefully combining the contents with those already in the box on the chest of drawers. “Would you like to watch a film?” Draco asked, turning.

“Alright.”

Draco put in a DVD that Harry chose and lay down with him. Not long after, Harry fell asleep. He woke up to Draco shaking his shoulder and saying his name.

“Hey,” Harry croaked.

“How are you feeling?”

“Mmm, fine,” he mumbled, reaching for his glasses. Draco had taken them off him again while he’d been sleeping, and a faint smile tugged at his lips as he slid them onto his nose.

“I don’t know why I bother asking you what you want to watch. You invariably nod off after the first twenty minutes.” A smile quirked at his lips. “I suppose I ought to take it as a compliment that you take longer than that to fall asleep on me.” 

“I haven’t fallen asleep _on_ you yet. Give it time,” he joked sleepily. “Mm, you know, Luna said there’s only one person who could ever hold my attention. Some things never change, I suppose. Not that I’m complaining, mind. Having all of your attention… let’s just say that I’d be a fool to ignore you.” Harry grinned playfully, seeing a mildly gratified look on Draco’s face, then he leaned in, pressing his lips against Harry’s and pliant lips pressed together, tongues curling around each other. Hunger always accompanied Draco’s mouth, the pressure and speed always varying based on the situation; it was quick, a promise that the desires ignited would be savoured and taken care of when interruptions were unlikely. Harry’s breath, having deserted him, slowly returned when their mouths were no longer connected.

A soft knock came at the door, and Harry’s attention snapped away from Draco, his cheeks flushed. “Time for dinner, then?” He stretched as much as he was able as he heard Draco’s reply, resting comfortably as he listened to the brief exchange between Draco and Mrs Prout. Narcissa had decided to join them for dinner, and Harry groaned, not wanting to get out of bed; he was quite comfortable where he was, with the thoughts of what Draco planned to do to him rearranging the blood in his body.

Dinner passed, leaving them alone again, both bathed and lying comfortably in bed. Harry supposed, even if he had been selfishly against dining with Narcissa, that it had its advantages: seeing Draco interact with his mother always gave him something new to look at, another way to assess his own behaviour and work out the best ways not to embarrass either of them. She was always kind, including Harry in the conversation, and knew just how to bring out parts of Draco that Harry rarely got to see. Part of him suspected she did it intentionally as a demonstration of what was possible if Draco was prodded the right way; and he appreciated it, more than words could satisfactorily convey: words had never been Harry’s strongest suit. Being with two very well educated pure-bloods, he often felt like he was sitting in another world. It didn’t mean he didn’t have a certain fondness for the foreign discourse or the manners. Watching them both had taught him a great deal, and in an attempt to prove he could learn, once given the right incentive, he integrated things into his own manner and bearing at meals.

Draco’s face was calm, close to the maskless expression he revealed during orgasm as Harry had ever seen. He smiled at the curious look that came over Draco’s face.

“I’d like to get something for you mum,” Harry said. “For everything she’s done.”

One of those pale eyebrows rose even as faint amusement curved Draco’s mouth. “How about a lover?”

Surprised, Harry asked, “Why, do you know someone who’s interested?”

“I was hoping _you_ might. She needs an interest,” Draco said, shifting slightly. “She'll start trying to mother you, otherwise.”

“She does that already,” Harry muttered, considering. “I only know Aurors. And the Minister, really.”

“Well, my mother would make an excellent political hostess.”

“You're serious?” Harry laughed. Pausing, Harry took a moment to make sense of what Draco was saying. And it actually did make sense, in a horrifyingly surreal way. “You want me to extend Kingsley an invitation to the Manor?” 

Draco shrugged. 

“He seems a decent sort. And I really don't want her getting too attached to you. She'll decide you can do better, and then I'll be doomed.”

Surprised, Harry asked, “You think she would?” _Doomed?_ Draco’s choice of wording left something to be desired sometimes, but there was still a flutter in his stomach at the thought of Draco thinking he would be doomed should Narcissa take what Harry thought was an unlikely interest in separating them. Having the validation that Draco’s feelings ran as bone-deep as Harry’s was like heavy rain during a draught, nourishing the parts of him that he had long thought to be dead. But they weren’t – just dormant after lacking the sustenance needed to survive. And with Draco, every day gave him a bit more strength of heart and mind, the waters of that connection with the most unlikely of people flooding his parched soul.

Draco nodded grimly. “She likes you.”

“You're her son! And I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, you know.”

Regarding Harry, Draco’s look became quite serious. “My being her son doesn't stop her doting on you.”

Instead of saying something trite, Harry kissed Draco, long and hard. Their gaze remained connected for a long moment as Harry tried to think of the most viable option. “I think... we should send Kingsley an owl. Will you help me sign my name? I'm fond of your mum, but I'm tired of other people deciding what’s best for me.” 

“There's probably some parchment around here somewhere,” Draco said, looking at the writing desk in the corner as though sheer willpower would drag it into arm’s reach.

“Better now than later, right?” Harry asked, Draco’s concentration returning to him.

“I suppose so,” he said, eying the table again. He still hadn’t made a move.

“You're being lazy. Get up. I can't.”

Draco sighed, his fingers flexing against Harry’s back. “One day, that will cease to be an excuse.” Reluctantly, Draco untangled his arm from Harry and made his way to the desk. 

“But not today. You’re the one worried that your mum’s going to interfere with us,” he said, grinning, enjoying Draco’s naked body as he stood still, back straight, at the desk.

“Alright, Potter. What am I saying to him?” Draco asked. “I suppose, 'Dear Kingsley, please marry my lover's mother and get her out of both of our hair,' would lack subtlety.”

“Just invite him to dinner. It's not unusual. He's been to Hightrees. More than once.” 

Draco nodded and leaned forward, the quill scratching the parchment like a mouse’s claws against a wooden floor. The view, Harry noted, was quite nice; Draco had an incredible body, lithe, graceful, and Harry loved the curve of his arse. The contrast of his skin against the dark wood of the table, much like the cello, was always distracting to Harry, and he moaned softly, his mind again teeming with yet-unfulfilled desires.

When he was finished, Draco stood up and turned to face Harry’s intent gaze. “Shacklebolt, Potter wants to see you. We dine at eight thirty. Don't bring anything. Malfoy.” He paused a moment. “PS. I give you my word that neither of the despicable Malfoys is planning a coup.” Then another pause, one Harry suspected was for dramatic effect, before continuing, “PPS. Yet.”

“Draco—” Harry looked at him in exasperation, “—that’s not funny.”

Draco, apparently under the misapprehension that adopting an air of innocence would somehow influence Harry, didn’t speak.

“You haven’t written that, have you?”

Draco laughed. “What do you think?”

“Start again. Take out the bits about a coup, please.”

It was odd to hear the snicker that Draco offered as a response. “What happened to your sense of humour?”

“There are people who read his post, you know. They don't have one. It's their job to keep him safe.”

Draco leaned over the desk again, then righted himself. Clearing his throat, Draco read, “Dear Minister, my patient, your friend Harry Potter, has asked me to invite you to dine with him one evening at your convenience. I hope that you will be able to do so. Yours etc, Malfoy.”

“Better.” Harry rolled his eyes. “You’d better help me sign.”

Draco ambled toward Harry with the quill, ink, and parchment, his gait slow, when he realised Harry was eying his crotch. After assisting Harry with the parchment, he lay down again, promising he’d owl it in the morning.

Two days later, Kingsley sent an owl back, confirming that he would join them for dinner that evening. Draco was a perfect host the entire evening, and Narcissa was quite charming, easily stealing Kingsley’s attention. The evening passed pleasantly, and just before Kingsley left, Harry had a private word with him. Draco cast a suspicious look at him, but he didn’t press for answers. The following morning, though, it was quite obvious that he knew what their exchange had entailed from the look on his face as he lowered the _Prophet_ on the other side of the room.

“What?” Harry asked, buttering his toast. He knew playing innocent wasn’t one of his strongest suits, but he tried anyway.

Those grey eyes narrowed. “I’m not falling for that, Potter.”

“Maybe if you'd read what's so interesting, I'd understand.”

“You haven't been around either one of us long enough to be able to pull that off. You know perfectly well that your influential friend has... defended your virtue and mine alike. Presumably you cooked that up between you before he left.”

“I told Kingsley if he felt the need to... put a stop to certain rumours, I wouldn't take offence.” Harry shrugged. Kingsley had seen Harry’s comfort with the Malfoys for what it was, making Harry aware that it wasn’t his place to comment, unless there was anything going on that involved unlawful conduct. Harry had put a stop to that thought immediately, promising that what was between him and Draco was mutual. Pleased with the response, Kingsley would be the voice to silence the rumours that had accompanied the sale of Hightrees, and Harry’s lengthy stay at the Manor. “I think he likes your mum.” Harry smiled. “And he knows if he has any chance, he'd need to... defend you, too.”

Draco regarded him narrowly.

“I’m obvious; I’m sorry. He’d worked… our relationship out by the end of dinner, and I thought he could help. Anyone who sees us in a room together can put two and two together. That’s my fault, and I’m sorry.”

Draco shook his head. “You’re certainly something,” he said, the amusement clear in his tone. He chucked the paper aside and rose from the table, the glint in his eye clear to Harry. Draco slid into bed, moving Harry’s plate to the bedside table. Harry was his fly, caught in the spider’s web, and he didn’t mind.

“We’re going to have to work on your alcohol tolerance, Potter,” Draco said abruptly, his fingers moving down Harry’s naked chest.

“Before this, I was a lot better,” Harry replied, assuming Draco meant that that could somehow help how obvious he was with his body language. Harry hadn’t had a lot to drink at dinner, but two glasses of anything alcoholic was enough to make him forget his place.

Draco looked dubious, but reserved comment.

“Sort of needed it to sleep some nights,” Harry added.

“That’s not healthy,” Draco said, fingers stopping abruptly as his hand flattened above Harry’s navel.

“No, it wasn't, but I was already taking enough Dreamless Sleep and Calming Draughts.” Draco’s expression became morose. “I had been taking them for months. Sometimes you see things that you don't want to remember.”

“The service shouldn’t have allowed that to happen.” Draco’s voice was tight as he replied.

Harry shrugged. “It happens. Why do you think Ron and Dawlish were assigned Head Aurors here? They’re the only ones who seem to be able to forget about all that.”

Draco scowled. “What the hell were they paying your occupational health team for?”

Harry shrugged again. “You went to them if you were injured in the field. That was it. Kingsley’s been trying to change things.”

“So he damn’ well should.”

“I never said I agree with it. But they didn’t ask questions. It was easier that way.”

The shutters were slamming into place as Harry spoke, and he realised Draco didn’t like hearing about anything that involved any sort of neglect Harry had received. 

“I’m fine. I sleep now, and I’m not going back to that, so it doesn’t matter. That’s what’s important, right?”

“Hmm.”

“Good Healers are in short supply,” Harry said, tightening his hold on Draco.

Draco kissed his head absently.

“Don’t worry about it.” Harry yawned and decided a change of subject was in order. “Do you think we should invite Kingsley for dinner again?”

“Yes. My mother liked him.”

“Good,” Harry said, kissing Draco’s neck. “Do you think she knows what we’re doing?”

“Oh, I’m certain of it. She clearly doesn’t object, however.”

“Even better,” Harry laughed.

“I should rather have thought that the question would be whether _Shacklebolt_ knows what we're doing. I'm disinclined to think so, but you know him better.”

“I don't think so. He's clever, though. Maybe you should, ah, say something?”

“To him? Perish the thought. No, if my mother decides to have him, he can fend for himself.”

“I suppose I could warn him…”

Draco laughed. “Don't you dare. It's far too long since I last saw her make a grown man squirm.” He considered for a moment. “One who wasn't me, that is.”

“If you say so. She's charming. I have no doubt she'll have him where she wants him before long.”

A smile, one that always demanded one of Harry, settled on Draco’s face. “And with whom shall we establish Mrs Prout?”

“Wizard or Squib? I only know one Squib—” Harry shuddered at the thought of inflicting Filch on Mrs Prout and continued, “—as 'popular' as I am, Draco, I really don't know a lot of people.”

“I wasn't serious, Potter. I'm far too comfortable with her as she is. A husband would complicate the current arrangement unnecessarily.”

“I don't think she'd want another husband, honestly. She's quite happy. She could surprise us, but I think she takes her work here quite seriously.”

Draco snorted. “I don't believe she considers it work. Do you know, she tried to tell me that she thinks she's overpaid?” Draco shook his head wonderingly. 

“She said you just looked at her,” Harry said, unable to suppress the laughter that bubbled within him.

“It was that or laugh at her.”

“Mmm. She's fond of being here. She told me about how you helped Sarah. Why don't you ever tell me these things? I am curious about what you get up to during the day, you know.”

Draco’s expression was blank as he looked at Harry, as though he had no idea what Harry was referring to.

“Her daughter. With the Potions homework…”

Enlightenment dawned. “Oh, that. Mmm. Yes. Ticklish little problem with lavender. Theoretical potions. It’d bore you witless.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Just ’cause I did poorly at potions with Snape as a teacher doesn't mean they never interested me. I did sort of have loads of other things on my mind at the time.” Harry sighed. “Krum wrote to Hermione, by the way. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“Hmph.” Draco lapsed into silence, apparently waiting for Harry to elaborate how he felt about it before saying anything further.

“I don't care. It's not my marriage. Besides, she seemed happy that he'd written. First time I’ve really seen her smile for ages…”

“Good. He’s planning to visit.”

“You’re having fun, aren’t you?” Harry asked, amused by Draco’s meddling. The idea of Draco playing matchmaker, attempting to reorder everything and everyone in Harry’s life, to keep him happy, was overwhelming in its own way. Being so loved… he had no words for how it made him feel.

Draco appeared mystified. Harry reached out and stroked his chest affectionately, his touch exciting Draco’s skin, making the once-smooth texture greet his fingertips.

“I'd be having more fun if you'd move that hand a little lower,” Draco said.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m not complaining,” Harry murmured, his fingertips still only a light touch against Draco’s chest.

“I have to presume that you were sublimely good in a past life.”

Harry, feeling mischievous, moved his hand lower, running his fingertips along the dips of muscle, smiling in response to Draco’s smirk, just before stopping at Draco’s navel.

“When I said ‘a little’, I didn't mean _that_ little.”

Heady with Draco’s desire, Harry was content to tease a bit, only moving his hand a fraction lower.

The look that crossed Draco’s face was clear, his next words echoing his thoughts. “Potter, if you don't get that hand on my cock in the next six seconds, it will be a week before I suck you off again.”

Draco’s cock was hard, and Harry looked up as he took it in hand, closing his fingers, asking, “Better?”

The gratified noise struck Harry as though he was under Imperius; he’d do anything Draco wanted then if Draco would make that sound again.

“You’re a shameless tease,” Draco said, without rancour.

“I like hearing what you want, too, you know,” Harry said, nibbling Draco’s earlobe. He stroked Draco slowly, but he still lost the ability to continue. Not bothered, Draco’s hand closed around Harry’s.

“I like touching you,” Harry said, his lips against Draco’s neck.

“Good.”

Fantasies rushed through Harry’s thoughts as he moved his tongue against Draco’s neck. There were many things he’d not done with Draco, due to his condition, but it didn’t stop him from wanting certain things. He leaned in and bit Draco’s ear softly, then whispered, “I want you to come on me.”

Draco choked. “Merlin on a crutch, Potter, don't just _say_ things like that!” The unsaid ‘because I almost bloody did’ wasn’t lost to Harry, and he smiled, satisfied with the response. His breathing became ragged at the thought of Draco coming, with little more effort than a few words and their hands stroking his cock.

Curious what would happen if he continued, Harry closed his eyes and kissed Draco’s ear again, tightening his fingers as he said, “I want to feel you.”

The short, stifled sound that Draco made as he bucked, his come spilling over their hands and onto Harry’s stomach, made Harry’s already straining erection throb. Hearing Draco was addictive, something he wished would happen more often. He felt incredibly smug, knowing Draco had despite his best efforts, just lost it completely with a few words. 

“I don’t think that’s quite what you had in mind,” Draco said as he lolled bonelessly against the pillows. “Just you wait until I’ve caught my breath. You’re going to _pay_ for that.”

“Is that a promise?” Harry asked, his cheeks flushed and heart pumping wildly.

Draco laughed a bit weakly in response, then promised, “You’ll be _howling_ by the time I’m done with you.”

Grinning, Harry tightened his fingers on Draco’s cock again.

“Oh, that does it. Breathing’s overrated anyway.”

“I hope—” But Harry’s words were cut off by Draco turning him over. His body became Draco’s to do with as he pleased, completely lost to the sensation. He came embarrassingly quickly, awarding Draco with his yowls of pleasure and lay panting, unable to form a coherent thought. His mind settled eventually, and he turned toward Draco, a light smirk on his face. 

“Do you have any idea what hearing you come does to me?” he asked, flushing.

Draco glowered half-heartedly. “Don’t start that again.”

“What? It’s okay for you to like hearing me wail, but I’m not supposed to like hearing you?”

Draco snorted. “I console myself with the reflection that I can make you go a delightful colour by mentioning the word ‘taste’. Yes, rather like that.”

“Wanker.”

“Not with you around.”

“I should hope not.” Draco burst out laughing, much to Harry’s confusion, and he demanded, “What’s so funny?”

“You. Do you have the faintest idea how much like me you sounded then? Merlin, Potter, you've been around Malfoys for too long.”

Harry frowned. “I didn’t think that was a bad thing, just so you know.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that it was. But it still amuses me. Weasley must hate it.”

Irritated that Draco had brought his insecurity over Ron into their bed, Harry said, “I don’t really give a damn what Ron thinks.” Harry was aware that there would always be a divide when it came to Draco and Ron. He had chosen Ron over Draco back at Hogwarts, but his choosing Draco now, as a serious, hopefully permanent part of his life, didn’t seem to override Draco’s feelings on that. 

“That’s practically fighting talk, Potter.”

“Ron’s my friend, but he’s not you.”

“I’m glad you can tell the difference,” Draco drawled.

“Quite clearly. You’re better looking—” Harry kissed him once, “—and reasonable—” then kissed him again, “—and the only person who can make me wail.”

“I’d better be,” Draco said darkly.

“You come first,” Harry said, his voice low.

Strong arms wrapped around Harry, and they lay together for a while, conversation having faded with Harry’s statement. Eventually, though, Draco had to get up to do some actual work. He assisted Harry with dressing after a bath and his stretches, then helped him into his chair so Mrs Prout could change the bedding. 

Harry spent most of the morning with Luna, talking. When she left, Harry joined Narcissa for lunch, glad that Draco hadn’t joined them. It gave Harry time to speak with Narcissa about plans for Draco’s birthday and make his intentions known about asking Draco to marry him. He needed help, though. Nothing traditional would work for them, and he hoped she might have some ideas.

Nervous, Harry kept his eyes fixed on his hands as he said, “I want to marry Draco.” Now that the words were out, he looked up. “I need your help.”

Narcissa blinked at him. “Well, if you can persuade the Aurors to look the other way and Miss Granger to arrange the celebrant, I can certainly slip a potion into his tea.”

Harry choked in surprise. “What? Why?”

Narcissa’s pleasant laughter filled the room. “I apologise, Harry. It was irresistible. You made it sound like some sort of desperately nefarious scheme.” She gave him an inquiring look. “How would you like me to assist you?”

“No... I just don't know how to ask... and I suppose I wanted to know if you approved.”

She shook her head. “My dear idiot, if I didn't approve, would I have helped you thus far?”

“Marriage is a bit more serious than—” Harry stopped, flushing, before he said ‘than just shagging’, then chose his words carefully, “—lovers...”

Narcissa regarded him for a long moment. “There has never been a point since you came to the Manor at which Draco's affections were less than wholly engaged. I knew that then just as well as I know it now.” She paused for a moment. “Harry, you may as well have been married for the last two months at least.”

Harry was unsure how to react to that. Maybe it was because he had been so clueless about Draco’s affections, and Narcissa’s words made pleasant warmth spread throughout his body, his heart beating an erratic rhythm. He had to take a breath to steady his nerves before he could continue explaining. 

“I-I don't know how to ask. Just saying 'Will you marry me?' seems... too plain for him.”

Narcissa’s eyebrows rose. “I suppose I _could_ unearth the old books, but really, I hardly think it necessary. Your directness and sincerity are among your defining characteristics; why would you wish to approach him wearing another guise?”

“It's not that,” Harry said, running his hand through his hair. “I know he doesn't like big gestures. And... subtle works, but I don't know what to say. Before, with Ginny... I, um, just gave her a ring. But I don't think I would do that with him. And I wouldn’t repeat that anyway. Not with him.”

Considering, Narcissa said, “When I became betrothed, my mother called me to the drawing room, where Lucius and my father awaited me. I crossed to greet Lucius, and when I gave him my hand, he raised it to his lips and asked me if he might keep it. I thought that was rather sweet.” Her expression clouded slightly. “Of course, I could hardly refuse. He wouldn't have asked me if my parents hadn't already approved the match. Still, it was a nice courtesy.”

“Does Draco know that?”

Narcissa shook her head. “You may be the first person I've told since my sisters.”

Harry felt honoured by Narcissa sharing that with him. Again, he knew how difficult it must have been. “I-I wouldn't have used it if he knew... But... I like it.”

A mournful smile shadowed Narcissa’s face for a moment. “Yes. I did, too.”

Harry smiled. “Thank you.” He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to being apart a family. “He’s more like you, you know.”

She nodded. “For which I am devoutly thankful.” She laughed merrily. “And that is really _not_ as egotistical as it may sound.”

Harry shook his head. “I didn’t think it was.” Then he smiled. “Tonight, then.” He nodded reflexively, breathing out. “If nothing happens between now and then.”

She smiled pleasantly. “Do you really believe he will _allow_ anything to happen?”

“No. I don't mean that. I just mean it depends on his mood. Never know what Ron might do.” _Or me._ He laughed, though, unable to hide his amusement at Narcissa misunderstanding him frequently the same way Draco did. “So… do I get a ring… or something else?” Harry asked nervously.

His prospective mother-in-law considered again. “A ring would not be appropriate. He works too much with potions and other substances; one unprotected by magic would tarnish or be lost, but one ensorcelled would interfere with the magics of the substances he uses, and those he focuses through his skin. No physical token is necessary, though it is a pleasing gesture.” She paused and regarded Harry. “There is... an alternative. It would appeal to Draco, I think.”

“Oh?” Harry’s interest was piqued. 

She appeared cautious. “A Mark,” Narcissa said finally. “You would wear your marriage as part of your flesh. Draco... would understand that on a deeper level than metal and pretty stones.”

Harry hedged for a moment, knowing this would lead to a conversation he wasn’t sure he was ready to have with her. There was no way he would ask Draco to take any sort of Marks while he still bore that of Voldemort, and Harry suspected that Narcissa had no clue about the discussion Harry had had with Draco regarding the thing.

“I know that you must be thinking of the Dark Mark,” she added, her voice quavering slightly. “But you must have seen his Healer's Mark? The essential magic is the same. It would enable you to... call to one another at great need, and it could be unique to you. Such marks can only be removed at a cost. It would savour of permanence. Total commitment.”

Pausing to consider, Harry rolled the idea around, trying to think of any negative consequences. None immediately came to mind, and he had to admit that it held a certain charm. Nothing about their relationship was traditional, and if such a Mark would mean more than jewels and precious metal, Harry was fine with that. In fact, he had to admit that it appealed to him that people would see the claim they had for each other, depending on where they chose to display it. _But what would we have?_ The spell to burn away the Dark Mark would surely leave scarring on Draco, and Harry couldn’t see putting anything in its place again. Absently, he rubbed his right hand against his jeans, assuring himself he was making the right decision. If Draco disagreed, they could discuss it later. “I have no problem with it,” Harry said. “But only _after_ I remove the Dark Mark. And only if Draco agrees…” He trailed off, his right palm tingling.

Narcissa’s head snapped up faster than a bolt of lightning crackling across a night-time sky. “Remove the Dark Mark? Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Harry said, meeting her uncharacteristically worried gaze.

“Harry, do you have any idea what the removal of the thing entails? I said 'a cost' just now, but—” She stopped, pressing her lips together tightly.

“Draco agreed. He doesn’t want it.” Narcissa’s face went very pale then. “I don’t want him to have it, either.”

She shook her head as though that would change the tilt of the universe, making it right again. “No more do I, but... to remove it, you will have to...”

“Luna's warned me... and I don't want to hurt him, but I'll learn whatever spells I have to... “

“The spells are simple enough, but the execution... It is not enough merely to be willing to cause him pain, Harry,” she said, standing and looking at the garden.

“Do you really see any other way? He took a Mark he didn't want, that he hates, to please his father, and—” Harry stopped and shook his head. “I love him, Narcissa.” _I’ll do anything for him._

“You need not— I _know_ who is to blame! I need no reminding! If I could undo it, I would! But to remove it- you... you have been held under Cruciatus, I believe? But for no more than seconds. To burn the Mark away will be... You will have to hold him under that— that sort of pain for—” Narcissa’s words died as her throat worked convulsively, “—much longer! And he must be kept conscious. There can be no respite from it. You will have to torture him, and keep him aware through it all.”

Luna really hadn’t explained the magic required to remove the Mark in detail, and Harry tried to disguise his shock at Narcissa’s words, hoping that she wouldn’t see his own doubts about it. Draco had made him a promise, though, and Harry had offered to remove it. There was no way to back away from it now, and even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure he could. Draco meant too much to Harry to make him suffer the stigma of the Mark.

“I know that.” Harry’s tone was hard as he looked at her, beseeching her to understand that he didn’t want to hurt Draco, but that he could not request Draco to wear a Mark to signify their marriage when he still had the Dark Mark etched into his skin. “I don't want to harm him, but it's the only way.”

“It would be kinder to cut off his arm!”

“And crippled him as a Healer,” Harry countered. His voice had grown in volume throughout the discussion, his own emotions getting the best of him. He was trying to be calm, but there was nothing for it, not when Narcissa seemed to believe that the best option – kinder option – would be to remove Draco’s arm. Harry couldn’t imagine Draco agreeing to having his arm removed, regardless of what magical adaptations could be made to Muggle prosthetics. 

“There is no guarantee that this will not! It could kill him!”

Harry’s heart stuttered at that. The idea of Draco dying from removing the Mark wasn’t something he wanted to think about, wasn’t something he could bear. Draco meant to much to him to throw away his life for Harry’s comfort. Being quite aware of the distinct lack of alternatives, Harry took a breath and tried to speak around the uncomfortable knot of emotion that had formed in his throat. “What would you suggest, then? Because I'll not cut off his arm.”

“I sugg—” Narcissa stopped sharply and turned to face him. Her face was masked even tighter than Harry had ever seen Draco’s and it sent a shiver of dread down his spine. “You must forgive me, Mr Potter. I cannot continue this conversation. I will send Miss Granger to you.” Coldly, Narcissa fled the room, her robes swishing elegantly behind her, the door closing too softly for Harry’s comfort. He released a long sigh, his heart aching at the circumstances. If there was any other way, Harry would gladly take it, but he couldn’t see one.

Time crawled by uncomfortably as Harry waited for Hermione. She finally walked in and took a seat across from him, demanding an explanation. After a brief recount of the talk with Narcissa and explaining – sans details – what had brought Harry to the idea of marrying Draco, he stared at her hopefully, waiting for that mind of hers to finish making all of the connections; he could almost see the cogs and wheels turning in her head as she eyed him speculatively. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” she finally asked.

“Of course it is! Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I had to ask,” she said, smiling.

Harry smiled in return. “So you’ll help me, then?”

“Well, yes, of course, but what sort of Mark would it be?”

Harry’s brow furrowed; he hadn’t really thought about that. “Um, words… maybe. Something that’s us, really. I wouldn’t want it to be in the same place the Dark Mark is… somewhere else, but somewhere people can see it, no matter what we’re wearing.” Harry ran his hand through his hair as Hermione waited with an expectant expression. Why he had to make a decision at that moment, Harry didn’t know. He lowered his hand, then looked at it for a moment. _What if…?_ “What about our palms? On the right hand?”

“It’s possible,” she said, her smile never fading. A familiar look crossed her features – one that Harry knew meant an idea had just occurred to her. “How about 'scio nunc quid sit amor'?”

“What’s that mean?” Harry asked. 

“’Now I may know what love may be’.” She seemed highly satisfied with herself, and Harry had to admit the phrase had appeal, but he knew anything with ‘love’ in it would probably make Draco balk. 

“No, that won't work. I like it, but it needs something... else. But not love.”

Hermione looked scandalised for a moment. “Not love?”

“Unless you can translate 'hold in high regard', I think something else. He doesn't use 'love'. I'm fine with that. I don't need him to say that to know it’s true.”

She still looked bewildered. “He doesn’t use love?”

“He doesn't have to. Luna says he doesn't believe in love, but... he shows me. That's all I need. I know what he feels is the same thing.”

She looked dubious, but asked, “Then... well, what sort of... concept would be right?”

“Everything.... Trust... I don't know.”

“Well, 'everything' would be ‘omnia’ or faith... um, probably ‘fidem’,” she said, almost to herself. Then she said the phrases together with the alternate choices, and it caught Harry’s ear.

“Wait, say that again,” Harry said. 

“Scio nunc quid sit fidem.”

Harry tried to say the words a few times, failing miserably. Hermione stopped him halfway through the second go and made him sound each word out individually. _Skee-yo. Nunk. Kwid. Sit. Fee-dem._ Harry took to repeating it over and over, ignoring the rest of what Hermione had started to say. 

His thoughts were immediately interrupted when the door from the anteroom opened and Draco walked in looking agitated. “Potter, what the hell have you done to my mother? She's smashed every pane in the orangery roof!”

“I didn’t— do anything.” Harry knew exactly what he’d done.

“Well, someone's clearly done something! She doesn't normally start destroying bits of the house!”

Feeling guilty, Harry replied, “I think she's concerned that my removing the Mark will kill you. I told her I wouldn't remove your arm...”

Draco choked and began to blink rapidly, the shutters slamming into place immediately. He stalked to the bedroom and closed the door, Harry’s gaze following.

“Hermione…” Harry said, moving toward the bedroom, “…sorry. I need to talk to him.” She seemed to understand and left as Harry opened the bedroom door.

Draco eyed him from the window as Harry closed the door and moved closer to him. “Remove my arm?”

“She seems to think it would be kinder to remove your arm,” Harry supplied.

“She's right. I'd rather you didn't, though.”

“Which I told her.”

Huffing, Draco said, “The odds of it killing me are minimal.”

“I would… stop,” Harry said softly. “If… it seemed like it would.”

Draco snorted. “You wouldn't be able to tell. The heart just... stops. There's no real warning.”

Choking, Harry looked at Draco. “Why didn't anyone tell me that before promises were made?” he demanded hotly. “Do you really think I want your life in my hands... in the same way you've had mine?”

An odd expression met Harry’s gaze. “Why would I trust you less with my life than you trust me with yours? You're the accredited hero in this relationship, after all.”

“This has nothing to do with being a hero, Draco! It has everything to do with how badly I'm going to harm you - _torture you_ \- for our peace of mind.”

Draco shrugged. “Pain is transient.”

“Death _isn’t_!” Harry snapped.

“I said that the odds of it killing me are minimal. My heart is _strong_ , Potter. I'm in excellent condition.”

 _So was I until Malleus Mentis,_ Harry thought, sighing. 

“And you will be again,” Draco said sharply.

Startled, Harry took a breath. 

“You will be,” Draco reiterated, his tone gentler than before, but the words were still a firm reassurance.

“I know. I... it's more complicated than I thought... and your mum makes it sound like I _want_ to kill you.”

Draco shook his head. “She doesn't think that. Never in a million years would she think that.”

“If there was any other way... you'd tell me, wouldn't you?” Harry shook his head. “Of course you would.”

“Yes. But there isn’t.”

Silence descended over them, one that was uncomfortable for Harry. Draco hadn’t made any move to leave yet, but he imagined it wouldn’t be long if he continued to hold his tongue. Harry was wise enough to know that talking about the Mark was one of those emotional bridges that Draco wouldn’t cross without a lot of cajoling, and his silence, coupled with his stare out the window, was enough to tell Harry that he needed to do something. Draco seemed to take direction well when he was trying to claw his way out of emotional depths, so Harry tried what was familiar.

“Come here.”

Turning slowly, Draco hesitated slightly, but he moved to where Harry was. 

“Pick me up.”

Making demands of any sort was still new to Harry, but Draco didn’t argue. He lifted Harry easily. 

“To the bed,” Harry whispered, nipping Draco’s ear. 

There was no illusion of submission associated with the way Draco followed directions in moments like these. Carefully, Draco placed him on the bed, joining Harry, keeping him from having to make the request. “Help me, please. I want to lie on you,” Harry said, flushing. 

Draco blinked, but he complied, manoeuvring Harry’s body between his spread legs. When he was in position, Draco bent his legs, supporting Harry on either side.

“I’m not too heavy, am I?”

“Don't be bloody stupid. You weigh about as much as a baby house-elf.”

Grinning, Harry reached up and pulled Draco’s hair to tilt his head back, exposing his neck. He ran his teeth along that pale skin, his tongue moving against the rapidly increasing pulse beneath his mouth. Unable to resist Draco’s parted lips, Harry kissed him long and slow, teasing as he rocked his hips slightly against Draco’s body. Satisfied for the moment, he looked at Draco, assessing him, then decided he would look good with a mark on his neck, and leaned in, biting down, sucking the skin into his mouth. Draco shuddered, and Harry took his time.

He released his hold, admiring the purpling skin. Licking Draco’s lips, he smiled wickedly. “That looks good on you.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

Harry bit Draco’s chin. “What would you like to do?” As he waited for a reply, he bit Draco’s neck again, the answering shiver adding to the building excitement he felt.

“You're the one on top, Potter. What do you _want_ me to do?” 

“F—” Harry began, but a knock at the door interrupted them, and he groaned as Draco called out a reply. He shifted Harry onto his back carefully, and took a moment to compose himself before answering. Harry only heard part of what Mrs Prout said, and the door closed as Draco left to take care of whatever the problem was. He sighed, adjusting in bed, and turned on the TV. 

****

~*~*~*~

Later that evening, when Draco had returned, Harry learned that apparently the reporters were getting even more zealous with their attempts to gain information after Kingsley’s visit and subsequent statement in the _Prophet_ regarding the goings on inside Malfoy Manor with Harry. He snorted in amusement as Draco told him about it, the tension that had built up throughout the day at proposing dissipating as Draco’s hands delivered reprieve.

As they were lying in bed, with Draco absently running his fingers along Harry’s arm, he took a breath and plunged into the waters of certainty headfirst. Taking Draco’s right hand in his, Harry caressed the line of his pale thumb. 

“Draco,” he said quietly, turning over Draco’s hand and placing a kiss at the centre of his palm. He took a deep breath. “Can I keep this hand?”

Draco blinked rapidly several times. “I… You’re sure, you’re _sure_ it’s what you want? You know what you’re asking for?”

All of the pretty words in human language would never be enough to say what Harry wanted to tell, so he leaned forward, kissing Draco softly. “Yes,” he said, looking into those grey eyes.

“Yes,” Draco breathed.

A brilliant smile tore across Harry’s face. “I lo— You’re everything to me.”

For a moment, Draco looked like a frozen lake in springtime, one whose surface had been battered with sunlight, leaving fissures along the delicate surface. Harry could almost see the seams of vulnerability, veiled by Draco’s desperate lunge forward, capturing Harry’s lips, his mouth desperate in a way Harry had not felt before. Sensation exploded in Harry’s body, and he felt the way Draco needed him like he was air, everything else seeming small in comparison. There was nothing their bodies couldn’t say, couldn’t give one another in that moment, and Harry soaked up every kiss, every brush of hand against his skin as Draco showed him unselfishly every thought and feeling. Everything ceased to make sense, his body burning with Draco’s touch, and his heart beating so fast he thought it might stop. 

Draco moved down Harry’s body, lavishing affection to every inch of skin he could reach. Harry tried to reciprocate, but Draco was determined, his mouth leaving light indentations and hair ticking Harry’s skin. With a moan, he reached for Draco’s hair, pulling their mouths together again. Harry’s mind was in a haze, his body flooding with pleasure as he was consumed. 

Draco turned him on his side, his mouth only leaving Harry’s skin as he positioned Harry’s back to his chest, cradling their bodies together. Draco moved his hand to Harry’s cock, his cock pressing against Harry’s arse. Slow strokes were just a taste of what was to come. Draco’s attention was focussed on Harry’s pleasure, his moans a chorus of praise to accompany Draco’s deep, heavy breaths against his neck and shoulders. 

Harry shuddered as he felt Draco’s cock slide between his thighs. His thrusts matched the rhythm his hand set, sending blinding waves of bone-deep desire through Harry. He wanted to feel everything, his mind and mouth disconnected as he tried to speak. His hand sought Draco’s body, needing to touch. Sweat began to tickle Harry’s back, distracting him. He was aware of Draco’s teeth in his shoulder, his breathing growing heavier, and like the Cruciatus in reverse, heat that he’d gladly let burn every inch of him spread throughout his body as he moaned, “Fuck me.”

Immediately, Harry stilled, realising what he’d just said. Draco froze behind him.

“Y... I'm sure I've asked you not to just _say_ things like that,” Draco managed. 

Relieved that Draco hadn’t pulled away, Harry laughed lightly. “I just… Could it work like this?” he asked, grinning.

“As a general idea, yes. But given what happened last time, I'm not sure...”

Knowing Harry needed to reassure Draco, he said, “Last time... it wasn't that it hurt. I just wasn't comfortable. I felt like dead weight... and that just—” Harry shook his head. “Hold me. I'll be alright. If… you want it... too. I trust you. No matter what.” 

Audibly, Draco’s teeth ground together. “You're— You're certain you're more... emotionally comfortable like this?”

“Yes. I can't see you, but physically I'm comfortable. I wasn't, then. That's the only reason I asked you to stop. I couldn't relax,” Harry said slowly, trying to avoid pointing out that Draco would know that had they talked about it last time.

Draco put his face in Harry’s hair, considering. His hand had begun moving against Harry’s cock again, and Harry was finding it hard to think. Feeling it wise not to say anything, Harry waited.

“If I hurt you, in any way—”

Needing to reassure Draco, Harry reached back to run his fingers through Draco’s hair. “You won’t,” he said, a moan covering the words. “I’ll tell you, and I won’t ask again.” He arched into Draco’s body. “My promise still stands.”

Seeming to have made up his mind, Draco released his hold on Harry, then moved away from him. Harry heard the drawer of the bedside table, and the sound of the cap of the lube as Draco opened it. 

Harry could taste the arousal they both felt, the sweetness heavy in the air. Draco’s hand moved to his arse, spreading him open. He eased a finger inside Harry, moving in and out of him. Draco took his time, drawing the sensation out until Draco’s fingers weren’t enough. The sound of Draco’s breathing was barely discernable over his pleas for more, his voice growing rougher with each moment that passed. There was only the pleasure, his body thrumming as Draco touched the right places.

He was completely open, his arse twitching with each stroke inward. When he thought he might have to beg, Draco removed his fingers, and lay down again, aligning his body with Harry’s. He wrapped one arm around Harry, and the slow press of that long, perfect cock began. Harry’s body gave without resistance, only a slight burn accompanying the gentle slide into him. His throat was dry, and he tried to swallow, overwhelmed by the stretch of his body and the pulse of pleasure that shot through him when Draco’s cock rubbed against his prostate.

Every movement was gentle. Harry’s head dropped against Draco’s chest and a shudder of delight rippled through him. There was a soft murmur, but Harry couldn’t make out the words. He was too concerned with the heat of their bodies, and Draco’s shallow breathing, and the utter disbelief that Draco had stopped, his cock fully seated inside Harry. He wanted to move, wanted to roll his hips and hear Draco, greedily wanted to feel that raw surge of electricity that moved through him when Draco’s cock slid against his prostate. 

“’M fine,” Harry assured Draco, knowing the movement he craved wouldn’t begin until Draco was certain Harry was okay. 

Draco wrapped his hand around Harry’s half-hard cock, his hips finally easing forward. Each withdrawal and thrust was slow, taking Harry’s breath as he felt his body sucking Draco deeper into him. He felt numb, had lost all thought. The firm hand on his cock drove the sensation through him as Draco’s strokes became longer, his cock going deeper. 

They were so close together. Draco’s hips were rolling, his body controlled and so tight against Harry. Everything blurred, streaks of colour dancing behind Harry’s eyelids. Afraid he would lose it too quickly, he took Draco’s hand and moved it to his hip, squeezing. 

“Gon’ come if you do that,” he panted. “Not yet.”

The press of lips against his neck, joined by tongue and teeth, made Harry’s nerves tingle. Draco’s hand moved up Harry’s hip to his flank, with each slow, deep thrust. Harry sank further into the abyss of pleasure, gladly drowning to feel Draco’s body against his, inside his. 

Harry tasted the flavour of them with each inhale. Every time he tried to speak, Draco did something, stalling any thoughts. Nothing coherent was forming in his mind except the desire to be overwhelmed, led by Draco to whatever depths of pleasure he could drag Harry to. Being there, feeling their bodies and the way Draco guided the sensations, Harry knew that he was loved. He could feel it surround him, as solidly as the arm wrapped around him, and the hand in the centre of his chest. The words that made it through the fog of need all died with fluid thrusts. Harry had never imagined anything could feel so brilliant. He’d never felt anything steal his breath and give it back in quite the same way. Draco lips delivered kisses of praise that pressed against Harry’s neck and shoulders, pushing electricity through him. And his body shuddered, delight and a hunger like he’d never known ebbing and flowing until he was reaching out in the darkness, starved and aching. 

Draco seemed to flow down his throat, quenching a thirst that had only grown since the first time they’d touched, kissed. All Harry could do was want. 

“Fuck,” he moaned, his head lolling back. He didn’t know what to do. He was coursing down a river, flailing wildly. He wanted to hold back, but before he knew it, he was at the edge, plunging over the cliff as Draco’s body angled into his. Reaching back, he gripped Draco, holding him tight to his body. He needed that feeling, of being so close there was no telling where one ended and the other began. Wanted to feel himself clenching and relaxing, taking Draco deeper. Then there was the all-consuming flow of Draco crashing against him like waves. He was just a rock on the sand, the friction rattling him to his core.

Draco continued to move his mouth along Harry’s neck, then his ear, his breaths hot and laboured. Harry’s voice broke the near-silence of the room.

“Draco!” Come ran down his cock. Fire, brilliant and blazing pleasure, tore through him. Harry’s mind went blank. He took a shuddering breath, his voice like tattered clothes waving in the wind. 

The movement didn’t stop. It was too intense, as though he’d been drinking a whole bottle of Firewhisky when one glass would have sufficed. Guilt showered over Harry, his words strained as he tried to speak around the tangled web of emotion and feeling that seemed to stop his heart. Draco, he knew, would automatically assume Harry was hurt, but he wasn’t. 

“Draco, wait,” he finally managed, moving his hand to Draco’s hip. “’S too muc’. Just give me— a second.”

All movement stilled with the abruptness of a Stunning Charm, and Harry felt the pull as Draco began to withdraw completely, but he didn’t want that; remaining where they were, just staying together until Harry was ready – even if he might not be – was what he needed.

“No, wait, wait, just… wait,” Harry muttered quickly. “Don’t want— Stay where you are.”

Unable to see Draco, he had to compensate by taking in every nuance of Draco’s body, and the reluctance was there, a tense shift, a change in breath that reminded Harry he really needed to reassure Draco that he wasn’t hurt. The last thing they needed was another failure like the first. Harry wasn’t sure Draco would recover from a second, even if the first time hadn’t really been as disastrous as Draco seemed to think.

Draco kissed Harry’s neck, a gentle caress he barely felt. 

“Wasn’t expecting that,” Harry said, moving his hand to Draco’s. Their bodies were still tightly pressed together. “Just need a minute. We got this far; it’s your turn.”

Draco kissed his neck, saying, “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t. Stay… just give me a minute. I’m fine. Promise.” He stroked Draco’s hand, since he couldn’t comfortably reach any other part of him, letting the caress calm him. He was embarrassed that he hadn’t lasted long, that he could lose control so easily. Silence stretched between them for a long time, their breathing rhythmic, Harry’s slowly returning to normal. “Finally get you in me, and I can’t even last until you come,” he said absently. There was no pretence in his words; they were things he wanted Draco to hear. “I wish I could see you when you come. You look—” Harry wasn’t sure there was an appropriate word to describe the way he saw Draco when the mask was completely gone, pleasure overriding control. “I like it.” He smiled at the tender press of lips against his neck again. Draco moved his hand along Harry’s flank, and along his chest, then back down again. 

“Kiss me,” Harry whispered, turning his head toward Draco. Without hesitation, Draco propped himself up at an uncomfortable angle, pressing his lips against Harry’s. The involuntary throbbing in Draco’s cock was delicious, Harry’s body slowly re-adjusting. Arousal began its tantalising quake, and Harry, having had sufficient time to relax, moaned, allowing Draco to swallow his voice as he grew hard again. He was ready, wanted more than anything to feel Draco’s pleasure from his body, and breathing heavily, he broke the kiss, enough to speak. “Want you to come in me this time.”

He shivered at Draco’s reaction, another stifled choke that sent a thrill down his spine. Draco said nothing, just shifted his body until he was comfortable, and Harry let himself be taken by the controlled thrusts that again stole all thought from him, replacing it with sensation. He took Draco’s hand and twined their fingers as he felt Draco’s body tensing further, his own desire recoiling, ready to release at any moment. Having never felt anything so brilliant, he followed the path into darkness. 

“Fuck— gon’ come again,” he grunted. “Don’ stop.”

The winding stopped in a flash of brilliance. “Dra—” There was nothing but the surge of pleasure and pain that coursed through him. He was breath and sensation. His cock pulsed, come spilling on his stomach and down his hip. Then he felt Draco’s body tense, the thrusts becoming erratic, like storm-whipped seas. 

“Harry,” came the low, panting benediction that sent a shiver along Harry’s spine as Draco froze. Harry felt the spurts of come, his head spinning.

He squeezed Draco’s hand in his, hearing the same soft sounds over and over, each one like his name, only unclear; but he knew what it was, and warmth overcame him as he rested his head against Draco’s chest. They lay until their hearts no longer felt like angry Snitches in their chests.

Harry’s heart was in his throat, making it impossible to speak or swallow. But he needed to say something. Draco’s cock was softening inside him, and he needed the toilet. He tried to make this throat work, not wanting to move, or dislodge Draco, but he wasn’t sure it could wait.

“I-I need the toilet,” he finally said, his mouth dry. 

Draco slipped from him, and climbed out of bed, taking Harry to the bathroom. Once he’d got Harry settled, Draco turned on the taps for the bath. 

Red-faced and completely unsure of himself, only feeling the warm fluid seeping into the bowl, Harry asked, “Is this normal?”

“Of course it is, Potter. Your body thinks your rectum is full. The usual course of action when the rectum is full is to evacuate.”

Harry’s face grew ever hotter.

“It takes time for your body to learn the difference between full of cock and full of faeces.”

“We’ll just have to practice, then,” Harry said, trying to make light of it, but sitting on the toilet, waiting to move his bowels after sex was embarrassing. 

A pale eyebrow rose. “If you think this is bad, you'll have heart failure when you break wind on me.” Draco paused meditatively. “And I don't think i even _want_ to know how you'll react the first time you actually let go of your bowels a little.”

The red painting Harry’s face grew darker, and Draco smiled. “I-I’m done, I think.”

Nodding, Draco cleaned him up, and once the bath was ready, lowered Harry into the water. He sighed in contentment at the feel of the warm water. His arse was a bit tender, but it wasn’t painful. Unsure what to say, he remained silent, replaying Draco making love to him in his thoughts as the flannel moved against his skin. A flicker of doubt, one he thought he’d got over, began to settle in his thoughts. He tried to push it away, reminding himself that if Draco hadn’t enjoyed making love to him, he would have stopped, or wouldn’t have said his name. He honestly didn’t need Draco to tell him everything, and he chastised himself for being so daft. 

“I can think of about half a dozen things you might be fretting about. Would you like to enlighten me?”

Startled by the question, Harry stammered, “It's nothing. I - uh - worked it out.”

“Potter, just spit it out.”

Flush stole across Harry’s cheeks. 

“Was wondering... if you enjoyed it, but I—” Harry cleared his throat, “—remembered what you said about sucking your cock, so... I suppose— I never said it's rational. I th-thought I was over that. Being insecure. But... it's fine. I reckon you did...” Harry smiled nervously, wondering how Draco put up with it. He sighed. “I mean, I know I did, obviously, but it was the first time and—” Harry looked down, ashamed that he’d let something so trivial bother him.

Draco caught his chin, the flannel dropping into the water, and turned Harry’s face to look at him. “Of course I did, you cretin.” He leaned forward and kissed Harry firmly, chasing away the petty doubts that had slipped in. “As if there is a world in which I wouldn't have.”

“You can’t just say things like that,” Harry said, borrowing a line from Draco. His throat was tight, his world spinning off kilter. 

One of Draco’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. Those sorts of phrases were rare for Draco, and it never failed to flip Harry’s world upside down. 

Harry cleared his throat, remembering Draco had seemed to think there was more to Harry’s shift in mood. “What did you think I was fretting over?” Harry asked, his voice higher than usual as his words fought to make it around the knot in his throat.

“That was quite close to the top of the list.”

“You still confuse me. I don't understand how you can say something like what you just said and then... can't talk about other things.”

Draco cleared his throat and picked the flannel up again, focussing his attention on Harry’s legs. “There was that. And it didn't seem unreasonable to think that you might think I thought I'd hurt you again. Or maybe you'd feel guilty about pressing instead of waiting for me to decide I was ready. And you could have been feeling guilty because you got off twice but I only got off once. Or because you asked me to pull out after you came the first time.” Draco’s cheeks coloured faintly.

“I-I didn't mean to push it. I hadn't meant to say that... so yeah, I did feel a bit guilty. You didn't hurt me. I wasn't worried about that. I just didn't want to come... not like it mattered anyway. And I was surprised, really... I didn't know that would happen. That'd I be so sensitive, and I didn't think I'd come again. Not like that. And if you wanted to get off again... I don’t care. I mean, seems a bit unfair, I suppose. I don't know. Merlin, I think this is the most I've ever talked about sex, apart from with Healers.” Harry was flushing again. “I mean, other Healers... from before... Right.”

Draco smiled faintly, his attention still on Harry’s legs, his face still coloured slightly. 

Harry took hold of Draco’s chin this time. 

“You can ask me anything you want to know. I might not always... um have a good answer, but... I'll tell you.”

Draco blinked. He was silent for a long moment, and Harry muttered, “Shit,” thinking he had pressed again. 

“You generally make your... thoughts fairly clear, Potter.”

“You didn't have to tell me... but I appreciate that you did. I don't know. Part of me was still trying to work out whether all that had just happened. I never really thought about how different it was going to be, and I wonder if it's just you that makes it that way or what. Everything I know with you is different. Not in a bad way - just unexpected; in the best of ways. It's something I've never had or felt and... I don't know how I've been without it. Without you, really. I suppose I never thought being with another person would be so... natural. Like breathing.”

“Of course it's different. Unless you mean to tell me that the Weasley girl liked to... ah, do that to you.”

Harry shook his head, and Draco was visibly relieved. Why, though, Harry had no idea.

“I would dream about you. After that night you caught me trying to have one off. When I still could... and I didn't try until then,” Harry admitted. “Was the first time I’d ever…”

Draco smiled slightly.

“It’s more than that, though.” Harry laughed, pushing his nervousness aside. “I can talk to you. You might not always understand what the hell I'm trying to say, but I really don't care as much to tell you.” Harry shook his head. “Sorry.”

“You can tell me anything you like,” Draco said and cleared his throat. “I like it.”

A brilliant smile livened Harry’s face. He reached for Draco’s hand, stroking it gently as his bath was completed. 

Happy, Harry fell asleep almost as soon as Draco put him in bed, waking briefly as Draco joined him, his body warm from his bath. It had been an emotional evening, but not full of the insecurity that had been the cause of many nights of tension between them. His lips found Draco’s as he wrapped his arms around his fiancé, sleep enfolding him.

To Be Continued…


	32. Chapter 32

Shaped and moulded by the lovely Romany. Sorry for the delay: personal life has been hectic. Spell Removal is next chapter.

****

Chapter 32: Even Magic Has Weaknesses

Irritated beyond measure, Harry scowled at the heavy droplets of rain that smacked against the garden doors in the early morning hours. It was the fifth of June – Draco’s birthday, and the weather threatened to ruin all of his plans for the evening, if it didn’t clear up in time. He had, with Narcissa – after having smoothed things over – and Mrs Prout’s assistance, arranged everything for the evening, even going so far as to request that the entire wing be vacated so they could have some privacy in the garden for dinner. Harry shook his head, hoping that the sun would indeed come out, obviating the need to rearrange the evening around the rain. He supposed, if he became desperate enough, he might be able to talk Draco in to procuring a large umbrella so they could still watch the fireworks.

The press of Draco’s lips against Harry’s back stole his attention, a smile, despite his sour mood, colouring his face. “Morning,” he said softly, running his fingers along Draco’s arm, the skin responsive and warm to the touch. Draco responded softly, the stiff, delicious pressure of his cock against Harry’s arse. He inhaled sharply, wishing he could roll over and pin Draco to the bed, make him writhe and lose control. Shifting his weight, Harry, after Draco – anticipating what Harry wanted – had moved a bit, lay on his back.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked that we have the evening to ourselves,” Harry said, running the backs of his fingers across Draco’s cheek.

Looking pleased, Draco turned his head and kissed Harry’s fingers.

“We were going to have dinner in the garden…” he said grumpily, trailing off, no need to add ‘but it’s raining’.

Draco blinked. “Oh. Well, the rain might well clear. It often does. And if it doesn't, we can eat in the garden another night. I'm more interested in the company than the scenery.” He was smiling, that physical perfection that drew heat up Harry’s bones and made him feel like he was trapped by Devil’s Snare. 

Sighing, Harry affected a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Watching the fireworks from the bedroom wouldn’t be the same, to Harry’s mind, and the only way to explain why he was bothered would be to ruin the surprise, which Harry felt he had done well not to give away in all of his brief moments with Narcissa and Mrs Prout as they organised what he asked for.

“If your heart's set on it, I suppose I could obtain some sort of pavilion.”

“It’ll be fine,” Harry said; he could hear the strain in his own voice.

Draco frowned. 

“It’s fine. Really.”

“I know the sight of these four walls must drive you insane sometimes, but the end really is in sight. There will be plenty of nights to eat al fresco,” Draco said in a placating tone.

“I know,” Harry said, putting real effort into reassuring Draco. It seemed to work.

“Good. Now, let's get you stretched and bathed before the inestimable Mrs Prout brings our breakfast.”

Harry nodded.

Freshly bathed – and Harry stretched – they sat in bed, decadently enjoying their breakfast. Mrs Prout hadn’t spared anything, loading the tray with Draco’s favourite foods. Harry had a flare of jealousy for the way Draco’s mouth teased and fellated whatever was on his fork, his own food quickly forgotten as he watched Draco’s tongue flicking out and curling around whatever was on the prongs. Palm tingling, Harry reached out and placed his hand on Draco’s thigh, letting the texture of fine hairs lick again his skin, leaving a tantalising strip of fire. Each stroke of his thumb met with a twitch of muscle, and Harry, his body easily reacting, looked up, his eyes burning with salacious intent. 

“Lie down on your side,” Harry commanded, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth.

Without argument, Draco moved the tray, and settled on his side, his thighs open, cock lying limp against his body. Harry stared for a moment in wonderment at the way Draco displayed his body for Harry’s visual enjoyment. 

“Help me, please.” He was breathless, his mouth watering and body thrumming. Draco, always obliging, assisted Harry into a comfortable position. Harry liked that he didn’t have to say anything more, that Draco knew exactly what he wanted to do. Reaching out, Harry pressed his palm flat against Draco’s hip, sliding it across the smooth dip of skin and muscle that flexed under his touch, as though Harry’s hand was a conduit for electricity. Curling his fingers, he raked his blunted nails against the tender flesh as he drew closer to the swell of Draco’s balls. Harry ran his fingertips across the sensitive sac, and drew closer, inhaling Draco’s scent. His nose was almost flat against Draco’s taut pelvis as he exhaled, his breath moving across the planes of pale skin and dispersing.

A light, fresh scent hung over his tongue, and he drank it down as he ran his cheek against Draco’s cock, his lips teasing the skin until he reached the head. He pressed kisses that excited his lips against Draco, then ran his tongue down the shaft, twirling his tongue to the opposite side as he drew back, taking the whole into his mouth. Draco was aroused, but not hard, and Harry savoured the exhilaration of taking that whole shaft into his mouth. His tongue was slick and moved hungrily around the tightening skin. His mouth was full, his mind conjuring vivid images of that look on Draco’s face as he came, the feeling of his semen as it had coated Harry’s face. 

The longing to suck him, swallow everything he gave, flooded Harry as he hollowed his cheeks, surrounding Draco’s prick. The contractions and expansions as soft, plaint flesh moved from one thing to another held Harry’s attention, his mind creating sensations that flowed across his spine like water, leaving the faint reminder of the presence of pleasure in all things with Draco. He didn’t have to be perfect at sucking him, he just had to enjoy it, take as much pleasure in giving as he knew Draco felt from the receiving. That understanding jerked a moan from him, his entire mouth vibrating.

The weight against his tongue increased, and, drawing back until he was comfortable, Harry massaged the veins and curves of hardened flesh. He ran an exploratory hand along the inside of Draco’s thigh, easing it further down until he felt the straining muscles of Draco’s arse. He spread his fingers like a set of wings, and let his hand wander while he could, just wanting to feel the changes in Draco’s body as he experienced arousal and pleasure. He rested his hand against the flexing ripple of muscle of Draco’s arse as he fought to control the urge to thrust his hips. 

Harry wouldn’t mind if he did, but he knew Draco wouldn’t; was too concerned with hurting him, and that still gave him a heady sense of being cared for. The quick tightening that was slow to relax gave him everything he needed. The self-control Draco displayed was proof of how much he cherished Harry and his comfort. Harry wasn’t sure he was selfless enough not to want his cock embedded in Draco’s throat. Not the way Draco swallowed him and hooked him, dragging the sensation from him helplessly.

A dizzying sense of inebriation shook Harry; the heat of desire welled within him, burning his throat as he sucked and moved his tongue in needy swipes. He wanted to feel that flood of hot fluid, swallow the thick strips as they hit his throat and tongue. Something about Draco made Harry want to push all of his boundaries, be whatever Draco needed, and it was a scary thought, one he’d never entertained before. 

Draco’s breathing was changing. As Harry grew more aroused by his own thoughts, his fervour for tasting increased. And when Draco’s hand moved through Harry’s hair, trailing down his ear, stopping at the line of his jaw, Harry knew he was close. He moved his hand, painting a line of sensation across Draco’s inner thigh, his balls, before he closed his fingers around the base of Draco’s shaft and held on, anticipating the bitter explosion on his tongue. Harry did not intend to let go – not until Draco had coated his mouth with come. 

He didn’t wait long. The pulses of warmth inside his mouth still made him grimace from the flavour, but he took every drop, letting it pool around the head of Draco’s still-pulsing prick as a choked sound resonated in his ears and seemed to shoot down the rest of his body. Harry withdrew his mouth, then swallowed the creamy fluid with a satisfied hum. There was a thick drop beginning to roll from the slit in Draco’s cock, and he licked it away, forcing his mouth along the still-hard shaft. The day when he’d be able to bury his face in Draco’s groin couldn’t come soon enough; he wanted every inch of skin wet with saliva, to taste every contour of Draco’s balls and cock, run his cheeks along them, soak up the arousal as though it was a drug, one just for him.

Harry had pushed his limits. He collapsed limply against the bed, his chest heaving as though he’d just come himself. And he wondered if maybe he could from the inherent build of desire with the knowledge that if what he felt when Draco made him come was anything like Draco felt, then it almost created a bone-melting bliss that overrode everything. 

Draco positioned himself at Harry’s side, his hand reaching out for Harry’s cock as his mouth descended, his lips and tongue meeting Harry’s in a violent crash. He longed for the moment when restraint wouldn’t be an issue because of his physical limitations. He wouldn’t have minded if Draco had fucked him until he was blind, but now wasn’t the time. Their teeth clacked together as tongues wrestled, an imitation of what Harry wanted to do to Draco’s body once he was able.

Panting, he forced his mouth away before Draco could lead him into satiation. The wait, Harry had come to learn, made each touch and kiss even more potent. He put his hand on Draco’s to still the movement. “I’ll come when you fuck me later.”

That wounded expression, the one Harry hated seeing, veiled the openness that orgasm had created. To smooth out the wrinkles in an otherwise unhindered plan, Harry made to reassure Draco by saying, “There is nothing I would like more than for you have my cock down your throat, but considering the day is just beginning, you might want to remember I have plans for us, too.”

Draco, while it was obvious that he didn’t like it, accepted Harry’s decision. Suppressing his own desires was difficult, but Harry knew if he gave in, he’d end up with no energy. At least sitting on the sofa, even if Draco had insisted on a blanket draped over his jean-clad legs, he’d be able to nap and be able to spend time with Draco between callers for Draco’s birthday. The first to show up were Ron and Hermione. Harry hadn’t seen them much, despite their living in the Manor, and they sat talking – Draco mostly quiet, listening to them converse. It was comfortable, and Ron’s tentative congratulations were received with a courteous nod from Draco and a warm smile from Harry. Mrs Prout knocked then, and the slew of visitors began in earnest. Draco brought some of them – those Harry was acquainted with or he didn’t feel would be distressing, like Dawlish and Luna – to join them. 

When Luna arrived, she leaned forward to kiss Harry in welcome. Draco snapped a warning for her misstep and turned to face him with a mournful smile. Hostile grey eyes fixed on the witch, softening infinitesimally as they flicked to Harry. She retired to a chair after handing Draco his present: a glass bottle that looked to have spider webs somehow woven into the surface, leaving it brittle, with a frosted exterior. It couldn’t be magical, Harry knew, but it caught his eye, nonetheless. Draco nodded politely, and stood, walking to the chest of drawers. He placed the bottle next to their boxes of personal things. Harry wasn’t entirely certain what the bottle’s use was, and when he questioned, neither of them seemed inclined to enlighten him. 

After visits from people he didn’t bring into Harry’s suite, Draco returned to the room, kissing Harry and leaving him with a serpent of fire in his stomach that seemed to spit and hiss more the longer Draco was gone. Draco, Harry suspected, did that intentionally; but he didn’t mind it. 

They had lunch with Narcissa; afterwards, Draco helped Harry into bed for comfort. Harry was surprised when Draco returned to the bedroom sometime shortly after another visitor had arrived and said, “Potter, would you have any objection to seeing Krum? He'd like to pay his respects.”

Harry laughed. “That sounds like I'm dead.” He took a moment to compose himself and cleared his throat. “No. Not really.” 

“I’ll send him in, then,” Draco said, approaching Harry. “Would you like me to stay?”

“You know you can stay if you want,” Harry replied, wrapping his arms around Draco’s shoulders as he was lifted, to be carried to the sofa. He pressed a gentle kiss to Draco’s lips, one that was returned with vigour. By the time Draco pulled away, Harry asked for the quilt, his face red and his breathing irregular. Draco returned with Krum and silently took a seat with them, much to Harry’s delight. He learned that Krum was planning to move to England and turned a speculative eye to Draco, wondering if he had anything to do with that. Draco appeared not to notice Harry’s inquiring gaze, looking completely absorbed in Krum’s conversation. Before long, Hermione, which Harry also suspected was Draco’s doing, arrived to tow Krum away with a bright smile on her face.

Harry hoped he didn’t have to deal with the same on his birthday; it was tiring just watching as Draco left to greet everyone. Later in the afternoon, when the rain had finally stopped, Teddy and Andromeda called. Accepting his present graciously, Draco didn’t remain behind long, as Mrs Prout informed him that he had another visitor. Harry had cast a questioning look at Andromeda, evaluating whether she was safe to share their engagement with, but Draco saved him from wondering. As he stood to leave, he turned to face them and said, “You may wish to felicitate my mother, Aunt. She’s finally found somebody willing to take me off her hands.” He nodded and left to attend to whomever was waiting for him, and Harry was left to answer Teddy and Andromeda’s various questions at length. 

Trying to explain two men marrying to a seven-year-old child, Harry found, was a lot harder than he would have expected it to be. Teddy seemed to take to the idea of his cousin and godfather as a couple, though; he said, in high spirits, that he would definitely need a Draco doll to go with his Harry now. Amused, Harry laughed along with Andromeda, and hoped that she wouldn’t feel the need to warn him off again. In hopes of avoiding any negativity over the permanent status of their relationship, Harry guided the conversation back to Teddy. Harry learned, much to his satisfaction, that Teddy had not worn the Mark once since Draco had talked to him, and was even relieved when Andromeda explained the penetrating questions his godson had asked about Draco and the Mark. Upon reflection, Harry realised Draco would be good at the awkward conversations when they had children of their own.

After they left, with Andromeda’s congratulations, and an excited hug from Teddy, Harry tilted his head back and closed his eyes for a nap before Draco returned. He knew he couldn’t have been asleep long before the door opened and he opened his eyes, watching Draco stalk into the sitting room. Whoever had just left was obviously someone Draco hadn’t wanted to see, and the quick lowering of his body to Harry’s in an uncharacteristic show of need both surprised and aroused him. Draco supported himself comfortably above Harry, placing one hand on Harry’s cheek, all corded muscle and restrained fire that scorched however much he tried to contain it. His mouth was greedy and insistent, an animal starved, partaking of a first meal.

In need of breath, Harry broke the kiss, taking in Draco’s expression. “Hey, it’s alright. Whatever it is,” he said. Their lips were nearly touching, and Draco wasted no time taking what he wanted again. Harry’s body thrummed, his lips parting as their mouths collided again. A ragged groan shook through Harry, as their tongues caressed one another. The tension dissipated noticeably in Draco’s body, his tongue teasing as he withdrew. 

“Someone you didn’t want to see?” Harry asked.

“Blaise Zabini.” Draco licked the corner of Harry’s mouth.

Harry licked him back. “I always thought you two were… mates.”

“Hardly,” Draco huffed. “I've loathed the bastard since the second year. Filthy, money-grubbing parasite that he is.”

“You were still saying that about me not long ago, though, weren't you? That you loathed me…?”

Draco scowled. “No.”

Curiosity at that welled within Harry, but further contemplation was easily curtailed by another kiss.

“Blaise Zabini is trying to turn into his mother. He had the effrontery to have a go at me. Again.”

It was Harry’s turn to scowl.

“I didn't fall for that five years ago, I certainly wasn't about to fall for it today. He had the bloody nerve to suggest that he'd like to say hello to you.”

Draco calmed himself by probing Harry’s mouth more, the arousal blurring Harry’s vision. There was as much fire in him, smouldering hot as Draco’s tongue explored his mouth.

“I don't know anything about him.”

“His mother is on her ninth husband. The others have all died tragically. And were very rich.”

“Too bad we have to keep us close to the chest; I'd have liked to see his face,” Harry said, biting Draco’s lip.

Returning the favour, Draco’s teeth nipped Harry’s already swollen lip. 

“I'd have liked to see his face with pustules.”

Amusement ran through Harry, but he got the feeling Draco wasn’t joking.

“Why didn’t you?”

“He'd have noticed. I did it often enough in school that he can recognise my magic. So I slipped a slow-acting diuretic into his tea.”

Harry couldn’t have cared less about Zabini, his thoughts heavy with arousal and the way Draco looked in his robes. Running his teeth along Draco’s jaw, he bit lightly, teasing. Draco arched his head back, telling Harry he liked that, and a smile as wicked as his thoughts moved across Harry’s face. 

“Mmm. I'm glad I asked that we have the evening alone.”

That predatory gleam that never failed to set Harry’s heart racing and a lick of warmth lapping at his centre appeared in Draco’s face. “Mmmmm. I might put you to bed early and not let you up for twenty four hours.”

“Sounds good.”

Draco leaned forward, nudging Harry’s cheek, wanting him to turn his face for better access to his neck. A shudder ran through him as Draco’s attention settled on the taut tendons.

“That's monumentally unfair,” Harry panted. “Any second, Eleanor is going to knock on the door again.” His eyes were rolling back in defeat.

Harry was so hard he didn’t know what to do with himself, his body aching for release. Draco was at his collarbone, according it all of his concentration when the anticipated knock at the door came. A vicious stream of fluent swearing tore from Draco’s lips. Refraining from saying ‘I told you so,’ Harry just shook his head. Draco’s impressive vocabulary was put to use again, his displeasure obvious.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” Harry said, pulling Draco’s hips against his own, inhaling sharply at the sensation that spread through him. He bit Draco’s jaw again. “Will you put me in bed?”

Draco didn’t seem inclined to greet whomever had arrived, but he nodded anyway and hauled himself to his feet; then lifted Harry.

“I think you'll have my attention for the remainder of the afternoon,” Harry whispered, licking Draco’s ear.

Draco muttered something that may not even have been English in response as he laid Harry in bed. Knowing he needed to rest, Harry closed his eyes, dozing intermittently until he heard the bedroom door open again. The callers for Draco’s birthday, Harry concluded, based on the bottle of Scotch he was drinking from, must have stopped.

“This,” Draco said, “is why I chose never, ever to go into bloody politics.”

Remembering the conversation with Narcissa about Lucius’ desire for Draco to do just that, Harry smiled. It was of familiarity, love, happiness – all of those things Harry felt with Draco. Draco never would have survived in political circles, not with the visceral demands and awkward situations it would have placed him in – not after St Mungo’s. Harry was grateful that Draco had ignored his father’s wishes in that regard. “I’m glad you chose to be a Healer.”

A lightning smile coloured Draco’s features. “As am I.”

Swallowing, Harry looked at Draco, admired the cut of his robes, his mind again moving to the desire to see him remove them slowly. “You’ve always looked good in those,” he said.

Draco frowned. “I’ve never worn these before.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry clarified, “In robes. They suit you.”

Draco appeared surprised and pleased. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Harry said, folding his lip between his teeth.

“I had been going to change.”

“I want to watch.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose, as he started to unbutton his cuffs.

Harry’s attention was completely captured by the sensuous movement. “I’ll be happy when I can do that.”

Draco tilted his head to one side. “You have a button fetish?”

“You're so literal.” Harry gave a small laugh. “No, remove your clothes a piece at a time.” A brilliant flush stole across his cheeks as Draco began to undo the buttons at his collar and below, his pale neck and the dip between his collarbones becoming visible. Harry wanted to lick from there to Draco’s mouth.

“I wouldn't have credited you with that level of patience,” Draco teased, the fabric of his robe dropping to the floor with a whisper.

“Not generally. You're right.” A flicker of guilt over his lack of patience in the past made Harry’s attention waver for a moment. He watched as Draco removed his under-shirt, reasoning that Draco wouldn’t have agreed to marry him if he had any regrets, and that holding onto the guilt wouldn’t serve any purpose.

Nearly naked, Draco sauntered to the chest of drawers and seemed randomly to pull out jeans, a polo shirt, and underthings. He placed them at the foot of the bed and removed the undergarments he was wearing and swiped off his socks at the same time; then turned an expectant expression to Harry.

“You're incredible. You know that.”

“I thought you might have come up with something else I could do, rather than get dressed, actually.”

“I have some ideas. Come here.” That was an understatement. Ideas of what he wanted to do had been at the forefront of his mind all day, the affectionate and needy kisses throughout the day making it nearly impossible to deny Draco what he wanted. But Harry knew if he wasted his energy, he wouldn’t be able to return the favour, and watching Draco abandoned to pleasure was indescribable.

Draco lowered himself to the bed, stalking Harry as though he was prey; he reached for Harry’s zip after he’d settled on his side, his mouth inches from Harry’s. 

“No. Not yet.”

Draco looked bewildered. “Are you feeling quite well?”

“I’m fine,” he said, kissing Draco. “I've wanted this all day. Trust me.”

“You are capable of more than one orgasm in a twenty four hour period. I know this for a fact.”

“And now who’s impatient?” Harry teased.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “I have spent the day being excruciatingly _polite_ to people I loathe. I think I deserve something in recognition of that.”

“And you’ll get something.” Harry smiled. “I haven't forgotten you. My gifts are... a little more complicated.”

Glowering, Draco asked, “Do they or do they not include a mouthful of your come in the next ten minutes?” 

“Fuck,” Harry moaned, shuddering. To hear such a thing was like Draco had just reached inside him and turned a knob in his brain, flooding him with the most vivid images of the things Draco’s tongue and mouth could do to him. “Hadn't planned on it.”

“Then I'm strongly inclined to sulk.” Draco rolled over onto his other side, presenting his back to Harry like a wounded dog.

Reaching out, Harry ran his hand down Draco’s back, feeling a very slight twitch. “I want it. You have no idea... When I sucked your cock earlier - all I could think about was how it would feel when you fucked me again.” Harry turned himself with some effort so that his chest was against Draco’s back, then pressed his lips to the nape of Draco’s neck, and shoulders. “And when you put me in bed. And every time you kissed me in between.”

Harry received no answer and laid his forehead against Draco’s warm skin, moving his hand down Draco’s side. “That's what you want? To suck my cock before dinner? A mouthful of my come?” he asked, amused and fighting his own arousal.

“I should have thought that was patently obvious. Since I _said_ so.” 

“And you're prepared to sulk the entire evening if I don't let you?” Harry asked.

“Absolutely. I can sulk for over a week,” Draco stated, the dark note of ill-temper only slightly warmed by an undercurrent of teasing.

“So you'll ruin my plans because I won't give you what you want?”

Draco was silent for a moment, then said, “If you don't let me suck you now, I won't fuck you later.”

“That's cruel.” Harry licked Draco’s back, feeling the answering shudder.

“ _That’s_ cruel.” 

Harry ran his nose along Draco’s spine. “No. It's appreciation.”

“When you won't let me suck you off, it's cruel,” Draco argued, more than a little petulant.

Dragging his teeth and lips up Draco’s back, he drew his hand up Draco’s chest to his jaw, and mouth, running his thumb across Draco’s lips in a soft caress. Draco’s breath was hot against his hand, and he moved his fingertips to the pale-pink skin, a feather-light touch that Harry thought he enjoyed more than Draco. “Then suck me,” Harry relented. The day had apparently not gone well, if the bottle of Scotch and the earlier call from Zabini had been any indication – along with his statement about being polite to people loathed; and Harry couldn’t realistically deny Draco something he wanted, not when he was capable of resting if he should need it.

Draco stilled beneath his touch. “Okay,” he said, in a tone that crawled under Harry’s skin and made its way up his body, leaving burning footprints along the way.

Fingers closed around Harry’s wrist, and he was surprised when Draco rolled him onto his back, then straddled his thighs. “Fuck,” Harry breathed, his eyes completely captivated by Draco’s naked skin. He was again reminded how much he wanted to see his cock inside Draco, feel the sensations as he was swallowed by Draco’s body.

Draco eyed him for a moment. “I'll make you a bargain. Since you clearly don't genuinely want me to suck you off.” 

“Bargain?” Harry asked. “What sort of bargain?”

“The mutually satisfactory sort of bargain.” 

Harry eyed Draco suspiciously, the smirk on Draco’s face making him wary.

“I'll resile from my position on a marathon sulk if you don't let me suck you now, if you tell me what it is that you have planned that is apparently incompatible with getting a blow job.” 

“And if I don't? You'll just keep sulking and ruin the evening? It is a surprise for a reason. I don't think it's something you'll dislike.”

“I dislike surprises. I like the flavour of your semen. I like the flavour of your foreskin, too,” Draco added, looking thoughtful.

“You're something else.” Harry shook his head. “So no surprises? Ever?”

“I get all the surprises I want in my working life.” Draco’s gaze moved to Harry’s crotch.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Harry said, “Ron and Keith – Dawlish – will be assisting Eleanor to bring a chaise longue to the garden so we can watch the fireworks I had George make. After dinner. I didn't want to fall asleep.”

Draco’s expression went blank for a moment, startling Harry, then a real smile – one that felt as warm and present as sunlight – graced Draco’s features. He leaned in, capturing Harry’s lips in a kiss that made the world feel like it had just spun off its axis, quickly losing orbit. 

“So that's one of your presents,” Harry said when Draco’s mouth moved away from his. “I put a lot of work into that. Your mum and Eleanor were most helpful.”

“Of course they were; they're devoted to you.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. If Narcissa hadn’t apologised for her outburst following the disclosure that Harry would be removing the Mark from Draco, he wouldn’t have believed that. Instead of considering that conversation, Harry shifted his attention back to Draco; there would time enough for the other later.

“What sort of fireworks?” 

The realisation that Draco derived as much pleasure from the prospect of a treat as from the treat itself settled over Harry; and he still found himself looking forward to enjoying Draco’s reaction even though Draco knew what to expect.

“Purple butterflies – things that fly. I'm not sure what he's put in it. I just told him what not to do.” Draco laughed, sounding almost delighted. “He can't sell them. They're just for you.”

Draco kissed Harry again, and he lost the threads holding him to reality.

Breaths coming in quick puffs, Harry said, “I'm not telling you the other. You'll just have to wait for that.” He reached up and ran his fingers across Draco’s face.

Draco caught his wrist again. “I have spent all bloody day thinking about you, Potter.”

Harry’s breath was trapped in his throat for a moment as a prickle ran along his spine. “Tell me.”

“I was wondering vaguely whether or not I could get you off with nothing more than my tongue and your cock. And then I started wondering about your perineum and my tongue. And then your hands crossed my mind.”

“My hands?”

“Hmmm.” Draco took one of Harry’s hands in his, examining it with his complete focus. “You seem to like it when I touch your hands. You got upset about Lovegood touching mine. And you're hugely tactile.”

“Connection,” Harry said softly, more than half the thought still in his head. Part of him expected Draco to understand what he meant without having to explain the details. But he was compelled to speak. “I like when you touch me - no matter where.” His fingers curled and twitched at Draco’s touch.

Draco’s fingers delivered gentle strokes to Harry’s hand as he continued to inspect every line and contour. He hummed softly and brought Harry’s hand to his face, inhaling the scent of his palm, his lips moving across the skin. The combination of breath and lips forced a shudder through Harry’s body as Draco’s tongue lapped at the webbing between Harry’s middle and ring fingers, dragging a gasp from him. 

“Tell me,” Draco said, tasting Harry’s thumb.

“Tell you what?” Harry asked, distracted.

“Tell me about touching,” he clarified, tracing the bones in Harry’s hand with his tongue.

Inhaling, Harry began, “I— I didn’t—” he moaned softly as Draco’s mouth continued its path, “—touch people, or have people touch me a lot when I was younger. M-my hands are sensitive. And... I like having a physical connection... with people. Especially you. Because you want it as much as I do.” His face was hot.

Draco seemed deeply interested by something, his eyes trailing along the line of Harry’s wrist and back down, then he glanced up. “We’re alone here. You can touch me if you want to.” Turning Harry’s hand over, Draco began to trace each of the lines that crossed the centre of his hand, looking like veins in a leaf, the splitting, bending marks perfect for his tongue to glide over and force a tendril of undulating arousal to reach out and caress his skin.

“I-I... know.” Harry was embarrassed by his explanation; it didn’t seem to make sense, not when they were just _hands_. They shouldn’t be such a powerful conduit of sensation to him, make him have such a powerful reaction to all of Draco’s assiduous attentions to them. “I like the way your skin feels. Your hair. Everything. I-it's the textures and it feels good. To me.” Goosebumps rippled across his skin, and he reached out, running his free hand up Draco’s thigh. Little fires seemed to ignite beneath his palm and fingers as he felt the fine, pale hairs bend and sway beneath his touch. “It’s like we’re one person for that moment.”

Draco hummed, his teeth grazing the heel of Harry’s hand. “You had better,” he said casually, “mean that about nobody but me. If you mean that about anybody else, I will find and flay them.” He nuzzled Harry’s fingers, looking up.

“You have had me for far longer than you know, Draco,” Harry almost growled, the rapid sweep of arousal making his head spin and his thoughts careen in spirals.

A lazy smile pulled at Draco’s face as he lowered his head to lip at Harry’s index and middle finger. “You do realise, don't you, that these—” he licked Harry’s fingertips, “—have been _in_ me?”

“And they will be again when I can actually control my own hands,” Harry replied, his breathing unsteady as he fought for self-control.

Draco sucked Harry’s fingers down to the knuckle, flicking his tongue and eliciting a whimper from Harry as his fingers became his cock in his mind, his imagination blazing as brightly as his eyes.

There was no time to enjoy the gentle teasing, as a knock came at the door, forcing Harry’s eyes open. He groaned slightly, but failed to protest as Draco rose from the bed, asking Mrs Prout to wait just a moment. Harry watched as Draco dressed in his jeans and shirt, then came to lift him from bed. Once Harry was settled, Mrs Prout was allowed to enter; and Harry noticed Ron – his face red – and Dawlish just outside the door. Always ready to do as needed, Mrs Prout was surprised when Harry stopped her and explained the change in plan. She nodded, and turned at the smug expression on Draco’s face as Harry said that there was no need to wait for the fireworks, that they could be set off whenever Ron was ready. Before she left, and after everything had been set up, the chaise longue still being moved to the garden, Mrs Prout handed Harry the packet about the ice hotel, and patted his hand in a motherly fashion. Once the door was closed, Harry, hoping that Draco hadn’t seen everything, held out his hand in a sweeping gesture, urging Draco to exit the still-open doors and take a seat.

It was odd, to Harry’s mind, that Draco should like purple so much, but he had no inclination to address it as important. He’d done everything he could to arrange the evening in such a way that Draco would get the most enjoyment from it, and with Narcissa and Mrs Prout’s assistance – and that of his friends – it was turning out to be a lot more than he’d hoped for. Purple candles, tapers and even smaller ones, sat on the table, casting a warm glow across the platters of food. There was another purple orchid, because even if they were lovers, and engaged, Harry still felt a bit of sentimentality toward the arching stem and deep-purple petals, and their significance. Upon noticing it, Draco said simply, “You won’t have to wait long.” Harry smiled, a giddy feeling surrounding him. Harry knew he already had Draco’s favour.

Not that he felt he required any favours from Draco – in the other sense; it was, after all, a combination of things: awaiting favours and giving them equally; an expression of all things in their relationship. The build, the stomach-churning desire, all of it, was what Harry awaited, with every breath he took and every smile that came over Draco’s face. 

Deciding that he shouldn’t wait, Harry held out the packet to Draco and said, “Happy birthday, Draco.” Draco took the information, his eyes scanning it quickly. “I thought you might like a holiday after all of this is over.” 

Draco smiled, and set the papers aside, taking Harry’s face in his hands, to bring their lips together. It was wave against shore, each caress that ran deeper into his mouth a taste of all things sublime, and he gladly allowed himself to be manipulated into moaning softly, almost sadly, when Draco pulled away. Harry licked his lips, letting the taste of Draco settle on his tongue like a sweet, savouring the lingering flavour.

As Draco poured their wine, the first blazing line, like a shooting star called to the heavens, rose from a hill in the distance and swept into the sky, exploding in a flash of reds and purples that stung Harry’s eyes. A field settled magically against the stars, and butterflies, chased by dragonflies, bees, and anything else with wings, burst from the flowers. It was like someone had just walked through the tall, vibrant blades of grass, stirring everything in their path. 

The butterflies danced around each other, with trails of purple sparks that were like a fuse, igniting them as they reached their limit. More of the blazing lines shot from the hill, and added trees, from which birds and other magical creatures – everything but Hippogriffs and dragons – flowed. Each of them had a different life, some exploding quickly, others lingering longer.

Harry stopped watching once the entire display was in place, his focus shifting to the smile on Draco’s face. His expression reminded Harry of a child, completely captivated and mesmerised by the brilliant flashes. When Draco’s hand wandered to his leg, stroking gently, Harry looked down, only to have the other on his chin, and the insistent press of Draco’s lips to his. It was like Draco couldn’t work out what he wanted more: to watch the fireworks, or to kiss Harry.

For a long time, Draco’s hand never left Harry’s body. He would stop watching, his desire to kiss – show appreciation, Harry suspected – overriding the pull of the actual magic that worked above them. He appeared genuinely enchanted, which made Harry incredibly happy.

When the enchanted trees began to sparkle and fade, Draco turned to look at Harry, his expression beautiful. A final explosion burst, spirals of small lights that only grew in intensity searing the evening. They missed the end of the display. Draco was more intent on Harry’s mouth and teasing the erection that hadn’t been given reprieve to subside since they’d come to the garden. 

Eventually Draco reasserted his self-control long enough for them to have dinner, and blow out the candles on the tiered fruitcake Mrs Prout had ordered specially for the occasion. Harry took an immense amount of joy from watching Draco throughout the evening. But once they were finished, Draco’s eyes settled on the chaise longue, and, without more warning than a predatory smile, he lifted Harry from his chair and laid him down. 

The world became a long stream of colours and sensation that lingered against his skin, intensifying with each firm press of fingers and lips. Their clothes became a pile on the grass, each item removed with grace and reverence. Draco took his time exploring Harry’s body, his hands, mouth, legs, and tongue moving over him until all that was left was the pleasure of a lover who took pride in touching all the right places.

Once deprived of his sight, Harry sank into the abyss of sensation that always accompanied Draco’s touch. His voice seemed to echo louder than ever as Draco’s body moved against his. With his back to Draco, Harry was incapable of maintaining any semblance of control. It had been frayed and tattered throughout the day, much like Draco’s seemed to have been. He came quickly, his entire body trembling as he felt Draco’s hold tighten moments after, finally coming, too.

****

~*~*~*~

In the middle of the night, Harry started awake by a loud knock on the door, and Draco’s legs untangling from his. It took him a moment to orient himself, his heart pounding quickly. He heard Draco talking with someone – Ron? – and tried to sit up; they had only been asleep for a few hours, and his mind and body were both sluggish to react. 

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Someone's got into the grounds. Go back to sleep. I'll be back.”

“Go back to sleep?” Harry asked, incredulous. “Not bloody likely.”

“Well, stay awake, then. Just don't fret yourself to flinders. The place will be crawling with Aurors by now. Mother will be outside your door.” Draco grabbed his wand and left the room, his robes still hanging open.

Noise erupted all around, and flashes of light that Harry watched through blurred vision made the tension in his limbs increase with every passing second. Part of him wanted to call Narcissa and ask what was happening, but he knew she wouldn’t move unless Draco came to replace her.

Harry had no idea how much time had passed since Draco had left, and he was lying still, but his muscles felt like they were being bunched in someone’s grip. When the bedroom door did finally open, Harry sat up quickly, eyeing a savage-looking and dishevelled Draco.

“I'm glad I kept the house,” Draco stated, dropping his wand on the nearest surface as he closed the door.

“What do you mean?”

“If I hadn't kept the house, I wouldn't have had the fountain, the gargoyles, or the Spitting Rhododendrons.” Draco was shedding his robe as he spoke, a nasty smile on his face. “Or the maze.”

“You were going to get rid of the Manor? It's been in your family for ages, though, hasn't it?”

“Literally, yes. I probably wouldn't have gone through with it. Now I'm glad that I didn't,” Draco said, stalking toward the bed. “It might have been easier to catch them all somewhere else, but I can't imagine that they’d have learned such a good lesson anywhere else.”

“There was more than one?”

“Yes. Bloody Aurors. They Apparated into the grounds. Cracked the wards open. I shall have a migraine tomorrow.” 

“They didn't... get anything, did they? There was a lot of flashing.”

“None of it was cameras. Oh, a couple tried. But they stopped pretty quickly.” Draco sounded altogether too satisfied by that as he sank to the bed and shifted closer to Harry.

“Mm. My— Thanks.”

Draco smiled and groped Harry. “Yes. Of course, the down side to this is that I'm going to have to explain... a few pieces of MDm to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“You can do that later, can’t you?”

“I'm supposed to be making sure you're alright and then going to report to Gillick.”

“Oh. Well, go, then. I'll be right here. With a few ideas.” He smiled. “Put some clothes on, though. I think Ron's seen both of us naked enough.”

Draco snorted and rose from the bed, moving to the wardrobe. He pulled out a fresh robe and shrugged it on, collecting his wand as he left the room.

With no clocks in the bedroom, Harry had no idea how long Draco had been gone, but it felt like ages. He wanted to know what was going on, but he was exhausted from the evening, and eventually fell asleep again. When he felt Draco’s arms slide around him, Harry woke up. 

“Mmm. Welcome back,” Harry said sleepily. “Everything go alright?”

Draco kissed the back of his neck. “I may need to tap your friends in high places.” 

“Oh?” Harry tried to keep the panic that crawled over him from his voice.

“Gillick took a dim view of my... vigorous defence of my patient and property.” Draco sounded disgusted.

Harry left all thoughts of sleep and resting behind at those words.

“He also seems to hold me personally responsible for your resignation. And he's seen your occupational psychology report.” 

All of the blood drained from Harry’s face, his entire body tensing. “You're not,” he said tightly. What Draco had predicted had happened, again. “I’m sorry.”

He felt the shrug behind him, and Draco’s lips were against his neck again, in a gesture he felt sure was supposed to be reassuring, but the effect was completely lost with the panic that everything was about to change.

“Owl Kingsley,” Harry said, his voice cracking.

“He's probably busy,” Draco said. “Dawlish punched Gillick and then Disapparated.” 

“Owl him,” Harry insisted, not hearing much of anything else. “He needs to know the situation so he can help. And he will.”

“Potter. I'd put money down that that's where Dawlish went. Dawlish can be the one to get him out of bed at stupid o'clock in the morning to deal with it. I'll talk to him when he gets here.” 

“I'm sorry, Draco.”

“Your influence, which I utterly despise having to request, will extend no further than persuading him that I was raised by Lucius Malfoy and can't be held accountable for the fact that I tend to reach for Dark magic in times of stress and trauma.” Draco put his nose in Harry’s hair. “It's mostly true.” 

“Gillick shouldn't have seen that report, should he?” 

“You hadn't resigned at the time it was handed in. He's your head of department.” 

Harry sighed. “Kingsley... He'll help.” His voice was firm. “My resignation had nothing to do with you.”

“Do you really think that will bother them?” 

“Do you remember when Aurors came to take Dumbledore in the fifth year?”

“No. Most of us weren't in the headmaster's pocket, Potter.” 

“There was a warrant for Dumbledore. Umbridge. She and Fudge... It doesn't matter. Kingsley was in the Order – he and Dawlish were the Aurors sent to apprehend Dumbledore. Anyway – Kingsley knew what was going on when Dumbledore disappeared. _He'll help us._ We're far less guilty for anything than Dumbledore was.” Torn between anger and worry, Harry was flailing arms and panicked breathing in the middle of the ocean. 

“I don't know. I doubt Dumbledore was in the habit of shagging his pupils.”

Harry’s body tensed again. “No, just endangering them.”

“It's probably a moot point whether a Healer shagging his patient is worse than a headmaster endangering his pupils. Only one of them's unlawful, though, as far as I'm aware.” Draco shrugged, his hands starting to wander again apparently of their own volition. “You never know. Dawlish might Obliviate him.” 

“Gillick has evidence? Something substantial that isn't... an interview that took place before the party?”

Draco nuzzled behind Harry’s ear. “I have no idea. Probably not. But whether or not he has, Potter, you remain a patient in my care, and, in case you've forgotten, I shag you from time to time.” 

Harry tensed again. “He can't bring charges without evidence.”

Draco snorted. “Evidence like a Veritaserum interview in which I can't deny improper conduct, you mean?” 

Harry’s teeth hurt from grinding them together. Draco nipped the corner of his jaw, possibly in protest.

“There's always blackmail.”

“I'm sorry.” Feeling defeated, angry, and worried, Harry dropped his head.

His body shook when Draco shrugged again, feeling the press of Draco’s tongue as he licked behind Harry’s ear. “It was always going to rear its head at some point.” 

Despite the war of emotions, Harry shivered. “This wouldn't have happened like this if I hadn't asked you to wait.”

“You asked me _not_ to wait, Potter. Do try to keep a clear head about these things.” Draco began to stroke along Harry’s chest and abdomen.

“I mean the spell removal.”

Draco snorted.

“The Aurors wouldn't be here—” Harry stopped. “I know I was selfish about it. I don't need you to remind me.”

“They'd have turned up sooner or later anyway. This was always coming. I was always going to have to deal with it eventually.” 

Once again, Harry felt the urge to push Draco away, anything to spare him any further trouble because of his actions. He knew, realistically, that Draco was responsible for making his own decisions, but it didn’t change the wash of briny guilt that clung to Harry’s skin. Silence stretched between them, smiles and pleasure almost rotting into something putrid and unwholesome. _Why,_ Harry wondered, _do I feel like I’m about to lose everything?_

“What do you want to do?”

“Have sex, get some sleep, and deal with Gillick in the morning.” 

“It is morning,” Harry said, lost.

An exasperated noise sounded from behind him. “ _Later_ this morning, then.” 

“I'm sorry. This is... all my fault.” Harry really needed Draco to make this decision, tell him what they were supposed to do, something. He’d follow Draco’s lead, let himself be guided wherever Draco wanted to go, if it meant he didn’t have to give up everything he’d come to love. There had been too much loss, too much heartache, and all he could feel was that he was ripping his own heart out.

Draco sighed and pulled away, then moved Harry onto his back. “Is sex completely out of the question?” His voice was plaintive.

It seemed to Harry that Draco was desperate to feel some sort of connection, to ground himself in the only way he knew how. Expressing real emotion for Draco was using his body to show the things he couldn’t bring himself to say, and that was fine with Harry. “No.” 

“Then stop apologising, stop blaming yourself, and start with those delicious little noises you make.” Draco lowered his face to lick Harry’s throat. “We're going to move to my old bedroom. The mirror in there is opposite the bed. Then I'm going to kneel on the end of the bed with you in my lap, and you're going to watch your own face when you come with me in you.”

A moan as desperate as Harry felt filled the room.

“And then I think I'd like to feel your fingers in me while we toss me off.”

Speechless, Harry nodded, understanding how Draco could handle being led when his emotions became a burden; the load was sometimes too much for one person to bear, and even with all of his doubts, he allowed Draco to take control, without the fear of being thought submissive to him. It was a sharp contrast, the edges smeared already with the sacrifices and promises made between them that had never felt as important as they did in that moment. It was new and as frightening as it was exciting. That was just another reason why Harry had no intention of letting Draco go – no matter what happened. He’d fight for him, because what they had wasn’t something that could be replaced. Why it had taken him so long to understand, he didn’t know, but now that he did, he was able to let Draco steal the worrisome thoughts and replace them with the one thing that always conveyed his true feelings; and that was pleasure. No matter how closed off he was, all Harry had to do was listen to Draco’s hands, and his body, ignoring the words that would never be sufficient.

Draco rose from the bed and opened the bedroom door, stepped out for a moment, then returned to lift Harry after handing him his glasses. As they moved to the other bedroom, Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck, running his teeth along the taut skin. He couldn’t help biting down and sucking, his desire to see a mark, leave Draco with a reminder of to whom he belonged. And when he felt satisfied that he’d left enough of an impression, he continued to move his lips and mouth along Draco’s neck, biting his jaw. Draco stopped their progression to the other room, his head tilting back slightly. It was all Harry could do to refrain from running his nose along the V beneath Draco’s jaw, feel the fine, coarse hairs scrape against his face as he made his way to Draco’s chin.

He idly played with Draco’s neck and the soft hairs at the base of his skull as they began to move again. It was bright when they stepped into the room, light dousing the bed, the mirror easily visible. There was a bottle of lubricant already waiting on the edge of the bed where Draco was taking him. When they reached it, with a care that defied their situation, Draco first placed Harry’s knees on the bed, folding his legs under him; and holding him steady, Draco climbed on the bed, his focus absolute as he adjusted their bodies, until Harry’s legs were spread, his cock jutting in front of him, Draco’s knees between his.

Harry couldn’t look at himself in the mirror yet. He was too consumed with the feeling of his arse against Draco’s thighs and the arm supporting his chest and the rest of his body as Draco poured the clear liquid onto his cock. Its scent permeated the room, just like the smell of their bodies; it clung to Harry’s tongue as he swallowed to keep his throat from drying with each breath. The hammering against his chest nearly muffled Draco’s breathing; but it was just as ragged as Harry’s, that heavy, throaty sound that mimicked wind forcing its way through stone.

Lifting carefully, Draco held Harry tight, so close he thought he might sink into Draco’s chest. The raking of Draco’s knuckles along his arse made him tense in expectation. That slow, gentle push opened him, and Harry’s head fell back against Draco’s shoulder, eyes sliding closed, as his body swallowed Draco’s cock. A shudder moved down his spine, making his muscles contract eagerly around the slick length that moved deeper as Draco controlled his weight until he was moaning and arching against Draco’s chest. Each tiny movement made his head spin, a gathering cyclone of sensation that spun throughout him. And he wanted to move, wanted to rock against Draco, to feel that cock slide in and out, those tiny spasms inside his hole each time Draco took a breath.

“Draco,” Harry panted, feeling the tease of teeth and lips against his neck. Slowly, a line from the junction of his shoulder and neck to the shell of his ear was drawn. It was a strip of fire that cooled with the flow of breath that was like dew sliding over a blade of grass.

Next to his ear, Draco whispered, “Look at yourself.”

With a turn of his head, Harry’s mouth was against Draco’s jaw, his teeth scraping as words failed. He wanted his mouth around something, wanted his tongue against Draco’s. 

“Look at yourself,” Draco repeated, his tone like abraded glass. It slid along Harry’s neck and into his ear, forcing him to look up. Reflected before him was something that made his stomach tighten, enraptured by seeing himself in such a position. Heat spread along his cheeks and neck, quickly tinting his reflection. Their skin was a deep contrast: Draco’s pale and like winter; Harry’s warmer and like summer. Strands of their hair tangled together, the almost white colour so very bright against the black of Harry’s. Most of Draco was hidden behind Harry’s broader shoulders and torso; but all Harry wanted to see was his face, the soul-touching look in his eyes as Draco controlled the movement of their bodies against one another.

Another whisper, and the glint of Draco’s eyes in the mirror, stole Harry’s attention. _Fuck._ Pinned in place by the intensity in Draco’s gaze, Harry moaned softly, watching his own brow crease and lips fall open in pleasure as Draco withdrew and thrust into him. Harry inhaled deeply, watching himself in the mirror. His chest, with Draco’s arm wrapped tightly around it, expanded and deflated with each gasp. He hardly recognised himself as he closed his mouth, lips still parted and glistening. Reaching back, Harry held Draco’s flanks as his body was shifted up and down, and his arsehole stretched and tightened around Draco’s cock.

Behind him, Draco canted forward, his eyes never leaving Harry’s as his hips shifted, forcing that slow, pulling and pushing sensation that delivered the spark sure to light the fuse that would leave Harry in a smouldering pile of charred remains. Draco’s free hand moved to his hip; and Harry bit his lip, his eyes falling closed again as the force of gravity yanked him back into Draco’s lap. 

“Look at my hands on you,” came another whisper. Harry forced his eyes opened, watching the calculated movement that ran from Harry’s hip to his lower abdomen, never touching his aching cock, through the dark, curling hairs, to his chest. That hand was warm, working toward Harry’s nipples, pinching them, teasing, when it reached the pert skin. A lingering touch, and press of thumb down the centre of Harry’s body made him look down, rather than at the mirror. Then Draco pushed Harry’s chin up, and met his gaze in the intangible copies before them.

Observing his own body was new. All of him was open, so easy to read as each burning spike of pleasure was driven deeper. Draco just had to keep moving the way he was, keep whispering in Harry’s ear, keep moving his tongue over his skin – _just like that_ – and he would be a pile of crumbled debris. The way Draco swept him away, though, Harry couldn’t see anything else. 

“God, Draco,” he groaned, feeling the press of firm fingers against his hip again. He let go of his hold on Draco, his arms hanging limply at his sides. There was a moment where he held his breath, the pulse of Draco’s rhythm moving around him and through him like so many bow strokes against a cello’s strings. And his echo on the water-like surface before him looked like Amortentia. All of the ingredients were right there, after all, and he drank in the dim sight of Draco’s balls as they swayed with each movement, and the way his cock disappeared into Harry’s body. That just made him harder.

Hissing, “Yes,” Harry let those low tones against his neck coat his skin. “More,” he commanded, his voice crackling fire. It could have just been his imagination leading him up the incline of impending orgasm, but he swore he felt the speed and pressure go from the slow fluid movements to heavier, more punctuated thrusts. Ones that didn’t go nearly as deep, but that made him wish he could control his own body, shove himself backwards until there was nothing left but the flash of coloured lights that danced in his vision and the burst of sensation that razed and scorched him.

He moaned again, the sounds becoming longer notes that started deep in his chest and found their way through him. If there was anything more than this, Harry didn’t care. Looking at Draco’s face, the way his body reacted to every touch, he was glad Draco was supporting him, because he was sure he would have collapsed and denied Draco the pleasure of watching as he took Harry right where he wanted him. And Draco took pride in his ability to make Harry no more than dripping wax at his touch; that much was clear in his expression. Draco’s free hand moved to the heavy sac, cupping him, the touch a hammer-driven nail, absolutely penetrating.

“Touch yourself.”

Draco’s voice was like Imperius, claiming volition. Harry gripped his cock. And as though those same words were a thief, reality was stolen. His entire body was unwinding, and he let it as the aching tension in his balls released. Come spilled over his hand, dripped to the sheets. Harry moaned, “Draco,” repeating himself until he was nearly hoarse, the words slurring together as he watched the pleading expression on his own face. The droplets and strips that landed on the bed were testament to the pleasure that Draco was able to summon from him without magic.

Tremors wracked Harry’s body, and he finally closed his eyes, his head lolling back against Draco’s shoulder again. He didn’t understand why Draco had wanted him to see that; he could _feel_ it. Watching himself with Draco inside him was arousing, and added to the experience, but he didn’t _need_ to see it when he was aware of how desperate he was to have Draco’s body against him, to feel Draco inside him.

Panting, Harry blinked and closed his eyes; everything moved out of balance as Draco withdrew from him completely and settled them on the bed. Awareness was a matter of feeling as Draco positioned them, found the way he wanted to take pleasure from Harry. The slick feel of lubricant coated Harry’s fingers, and he opened his eyes, watching as Draco shifted, and reached out and took hold of Draco’s cock. 

He pressed his fingers inside Draco, felt the rings of muscle give. Draco’s arse was so tight, and Harry couldn’t wait until he could feel his cock buried in there, could take his pleasure from Draco. It was so smooth inside Draco, and rippled with tension as Draco spread his legs further and rode Harry’s fingers, as their hands worked to bring him off. Harry would have preferred to feel Draco come inside him, to feel that immense pride he always experienced as fluid dripped down his arse and legs, but realistically he knew the position Draco had chosen couldn’t have been that enjoyable for Draco. That, or he really just wanted Harry to feel inside his body again. Not that Harry minded, either way. 

Harry tightened his grip on Draco’s cock. The gaze of storm-cloud grey that focussed on Harry was enough to make him moan. Then Draco’s eyelids fluttered slightly, his pale lashes brushing his cheeks as his breath sped up. Harry’s lips parted as his own breath became shallow, the thought of seeing that look on Draco’s face enough to make spent parts of his anatomy twitch.

Draco released his steadying hold on Harry’s wrist and reached out to card his fingers through Harry’s hair, pulling it. He rolled his head into the touch, loving every second of it. The clamp around his quickly-tiring fingers grew tighter, and he felt the warmth of come against his arm as Draco’s body jerked. Draco’s expression morphed like a Transfigured matchstick. Unable to control his reaction, Harry bit his lip, swallowing the curse on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to see that as their bodies were connected, craved it like water. It was a wonder it didn’t make him come again, and he imagined that the sight of it really could do that to him.

Lying in their bed, after having been cleaned up, Draco was still clinging to Harry as though he might disappear if their bodies weren’t connected in some way. Still like an ancient tome full of hieroglyphics he had been working on memorising, Harry found Draco even harder to read than ever, and was bewildered by the strange possessiveness that clawed at him through Draco’s touch.

“What's got into you?” he asked.

“Your fingers.” Draco’s tone was smug.

“That's not— I mean, why are you...?” Harry made a vague gesture, trying to give voice to his thoughts. _So in the mood to shag when everything feels like it’s falling apart? So smug?_

“I happen to find you sexually attractive. That's normally considered desirable in a partner.” 

Harry tried to smile, attempting to turn the questions he wanted to know the answers to into something that wouldn’t make Draco wilfully obtuse and obstinate. “You were against us – before. Because something like this would happen... I don't understand why you're... I don't know. Not that you don't care, but you're acting oddly. To me.” 

Draco began nuzzling behind Harry’s ear again, his words a physical thing that reached out and wound into him. “Acting oddly?” 

“Yeah. I thought you'd be... angry.” 

That wicked tongue picked up right where nose and mouth had stopped. “I knew it was going to happen.” 

“Then why...?” Harry trailed off as Draco licked along his hairline. _…did you make such a fuss? Try to deny what you wanted?_

“If we hadn't started this,” Draco said, his hands moving along Harry’s skin, “it wouldn't have happened. But we did, so it was inevitable. I chose it when I chose you.” 

Trying to turn to look at Draco, Harry was prevented from any movement by the press of Draco’s hips against his arse, his cock hard again. But as he lay there, attempting to decipher the meaning of Draco’s words, it occurred to him that if it had been inevitable, then Draco had taken a chance on something, even with full knowledge of the outcome. He had shrugged off his own morals for something with Harry, for someone who had never once thought about him as anything more than a spoilt wanker. Harry could honestly say he hadn’t spared a thought for Draco since he’d left Malfoy Manor almost eight years ago, since he’d become everything that had been expected of him. 

And maybe that was what confused him so much, that despite their tainted history, Draco could feel so much for him, be willing to give up everything for someone who had refused to display a modicum of amity or even neutrality. Harry knew, as well as anyone else, that he had deserved Draco’s ‘Perfect Potter’ nickname. As derisive as it had been, it had been true. No one had ever held Harry accountable in the same way as the other students, apart from Snape. That, he thought, was possibly an understatement, but it served as a chilling reminder of all the exceptions that had been made for him, even with the Ministry. He’d qualified to be an Auror, but there had been no real ‘training’, apart from that he had done in the field, next to those who were his senior, and the handful of basic field medical charms he’d had to learn. Everything else had come with experience.

Harry wanted to understand. He could identify his feelings now, could explain in more detail than he really wanted to admit why he felt the way he did for Draco; but there would always be a divide with them in that regard. Draco would never express himself the same way Harry chose to. Scariest of all, perhaps, was the realisation that even if Harry had been horribly naïf about the idiots clamouring for answers at the gate, and the infallibility of Draco’s magic and keeping the bloodsuckers from the grounds, there was still no reason he should have forced everything. Yes, Harry had changed in some regards, but he knew there would always be part of him that would boldly attempt to have exactly what he wanted, and suffer the consequences for his rashness as they hit him.

Either Draco was supremely confident in his measures – or, at least, his measures in combination with whatever he had meant by his remark about tapping Harry’s friends in high places – to keep their relationship secret until it was safe to share with the wizarding world what they had, or he didn’t care. Harry hoped it was confidence; if anything, the man who had repaired the Vanishing Cabinets in the sixth year had a powerful mind, and not one that should be doubted or underestimated for any reason. No matter what happened, though, Harry was willing to make any sacrifice necessary in order to protect Draco from the fallout of Harry’s selfishness. There was nothing he wouldn’t trade in order to protect Draco from whatever negative repercussions befell them. Harry wondered whether Draco would forgive him – could forgive him – if something happened. Draco, Harry reasoned, didn’t seem to have any regrets about the start of their relationship, nor where it had led so far. 

He wondered if he deserved that mercy, deserved Draco’s unlimited affection and devotion despite Harry’s cavalier approach to rules and the consequences of breaking them.

“You took that chance anyway,” he said quietly.

Draco’s tongue moved along the vertebrae in Harry’s neck, each one receiving equal attention before Draco said, “Clearly.” He sucked at a spot below Harry’s hairline for a moment before adding, “Not that it was a 'chance'.”

“But you...” Harry really wanted to turn over and have this conversation facing him. “It's worth it?” _Even though you might go to Azkaban? Even though you might not be able to be a Healer any more?_

Humming a vague affirmative, Draco’s hand moved across Harry’s stomach, slowly continuing lower until his fingertips were straying through his pubic hair. 

Harry couldn’t stop the moan that rumbled in his throat, his stomach tightening and body buzzing with desire.

Draco mouthed at his neck, then said, “It's all in hand, anyway.”

Harry moaned again. “It is?”

Another affirmative hum followed, and Harry tilted his head back so Draco could continue as he was. 

He obliged.

“Do I want to know any more than that?” Harry asked as Draco’s other hand moved to his hair, distracting him.

“Bribery. Blackmail. Other people’s powerful friends. Morally questionable Malfoy stuff.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Not unless by 'help' you mean 'provide a constant source of carnal indulgence when the stress becomes irksome'.”

“And - ah - is it irksome now?”

“Mmm.” Draco began to tickle the base of Harry’s cock, but tension and satiation prevented Harry from reacting with much more than soft moans.

“Whatever you want. It's yours, you know,” Harry said, closing his eyes and moving his head just to feel Draco’s fingers moving through his hair.

“I want to fuck you again. But you'll get sore, and I don't think you really want another bath, and I refuse to leave you on soiled sheets.” Draco nipped his neck. “So I shall just have to restrain myself.”

“Sit on my chest, then,” Harry said, unsure where the idea had come from. Maybe it was the desire to satisfy whatever Draco needed, to give him whatever he wanted.

A sharp pain flared in Harry’s neck as Draco sank his teeth in. “No. We'll talk about getting exotic when you're physically up to it.”

Harry shuddered against the feeling, hating that that day hadn’t already arrived. But that was his fault, too. “Then put me on the sofa and stand in front of me.”

Draco tugged the hair at Harry’s groin. “That's inelegant and I refuse to countenance it. And it's the wrong height.”

“My mouth isn't going to get as sore. I want you to fuck my mouth.”

“If I fuck your mouth, you'll choke and that will spoil my day.” Draco pulled both handfuls of hair, and Harry cried out as he let his head fall back against Draco’s chest. “I'm capable of leaving you relatively unmolested for one night. If you're capable of sitting still through dinner tomorrow, I shall fuck you again tomorrow night.” Draco released his hold, and resumed where he had left off, stroking every bit of skin available. 

Harry wondered for a moment if Draco thought on some level he’d never touch him again, the territorial affection a reminder that he was where he belonged and wanted to be. He imagined that had they been lovers when Rita Skeeter had found her way into the Manor that Draco would have reacted much the same way, almost as though he had to remind himself that Harry was there and not going to disappear. Such behaviour had always followed some instance of Draco being protective of his lover-patient. To be the centre of someone’s world, have all of another’s absolute devotion, was one of the strangest feelings Harry had ever known. It even had a taste. 

Reaching between them, Harry wrapped his hand around Draco’s stiff cock and asked, “You aren't going to take care of that?”

Draco huffed and moved Harry’s hand, interlacing their fingers as he held it against Harry’s chest. “It’ll go away eventually.”

Harry didn’t have the energy to argue, and soothed by Draco’s gesture, he closed his eyes and said softly, “Whatever happens— You know how important you are to me, don't you?”

Draco hummed again, kissing Harry’s neck. It took a while, but Harry eventually drifted off, just as the sun began to crest on the horizon.

****

~*~*~*~

Mid-morning brought with it an empty bed that, had Harry been able to walk, he would have quickly stood from, and gone in search of Draco. Instead, he was left with a vivid recollection of the evening, and the fear that it was all over – that the life he’d only just begun trying to rebuild was going to be torn down and the scattered debris razed until only ash remained. He groaned as he moved, reaching for his bottle to relieve himself. 

Moments later, Draco entered, and took Harry through his routine. They shared a brief kiss after Harry was dressed, and Draco informed Harry that Kingsley was there – had been for several hours – and wished to speak to him. With a sigh, he nodded and followed Draco into the sitting room, and watched Draco until the door closed and he was alone with the Minister.

By the time Draco returned, and Narcissa joined them for lunch, Harry’s mind was reeling with information. It seemed that once Harry had fallen asleep, Draco had sprung back into action, and had been working tirelessly on his disaster-recovery campaign ever since.

Harry ate slowly as he tried to digest the details Kingsley had shared with him. Gillick, it seemed, had it in for Draco, or was suffering a thitherto unsuspected touch of Boy-Who-Lived hero worship, because he’d begun an investigation into their relationship immediately. Within the week, a mediwizard from St Mungo’s, on the instructions of the Council, would be calling at the Manor to interview Harry, in order to determine if there had been any abuse while he’d been in Draco’s care. He’d scoffed at that, but Kingsley had fixed Harry with a grave expression that reminded him what was really at stake if Harry couldn’t be reasonable. 

He was knackered; and reached out and ran his fingertips across the back of Draco’s wrist and excused himself. He needed his bottle, and a moment to think, without being interrupted by the conversation between Narcissa and Kingsley, which Draco added to intermittently. 

After relieving himself, Harry went to the garden and took a deep breath, steadying himself. So much had happened since he’d gone to sleep, he could barely keep track of it all: Dawlish was up for disciplinary review for punching Gillick; Draco had concocted an interview for Kingsley and Dawlish to carry out while he was under Veritaserum – that had taken Harry at least three reads to work out, and once he had, he’d been immensely satisfied and impressed by – and proud of – Draco’s ability to think in knots; Ron was officially in the process of being reassigned; and new Aurors were replacing the ones who had been on the premises. 

Ron, Harry had learned, had taken high exception to the insinuations levelled against him and had lost his rag, begun shouting, and stomped off in high dudgeon, refusing to swallow the insulting suggestion that he wasn’t there to protect Harry and that he had failed to report any impropriety on Draco’s part. Harry was glad that Ron hadn’t ever seen them in any intimate situations, apart from the two times he’d stumbled into the room so far. That, Harry thought, was probably the best for Ron, as he wouldn’t have to lie about any conduct that the Healers’ Council or the Ministry could use to form any actual charges against Draco with. As a consequence of Ron’s having left with a rude gesture and yelling some obscenity that Harry blushed to recollect, he had decided that it may be prudent to take up George’s offer to go into the shop. Hermione had remained behind, though, explaining that she’d like to be moral support for Harry; and stay clear of Mrs Weasley, too, Harry suspected. She had taken leave from the Ministry, and he imagined she’d have more to occupy her time at the Manor with Mrs Prout, Narcissa, and access to as many books – that weren’t dangerous; and the house-elves could fetch – as she liked. Ron could Apparate to call, if he chose, and if there were any complications, Draco was there. 

Something Kingsley had said continued to edge its way into Harry’s thoughts, no matter how he tried not to dwell on it. “Harry, as a service to the rest of humanity, never, ever leave him: that is not a mind or morality I want to see left to its own devices or sent off the deep end.” A soft smile moved over Harry’s face as he recalled more of the conversation. Much to his consternation, Draco had shown Kingsley memories of Harry’s pathetic and amateur attempts at seduction as part of the disclosure he had felt it necessary to make to gain the Minister’s tacit support, which had led to some avuncular ribbing Harry could have done without. He had to admit, though, that while it had been a bit clumsy, Kingsley’s words had been something similar to what he could imagine his own father having said; it had a tone of familiarity that Harry wouldn’t have minded hearing more of.

His respect for Kingsley had been the only thing keeping his poorly-controlled temper in check at the time, though, apart from sheer, tongue-tying embarrassment. Kingsley was satisfied with how things had gone, though for his own conscience, he’d asked some questions that hadn’t ended up on the record, and received caustic answers that had convinced him of Draco’s fundamentally good intentions. “Of course he means the world to me, you nitwit,” Kingsley had repeated, with a creditable attempt at imitating Draco’s acerbity and trick of making his words drip corrosive disdain. “He’s headstrong, impetuous, infuriating, and perfectly imperfect, and I think I’d go insane without him, and if you tell him I said that I will hex your testes into ovaries.” He’d recited it verbatim and with considerable relish, despite the threat Draco had levelled at him, and Harry had found himself flushing as much from pleasure as from discomfiture.

Following the ‘formal’ disclosure, Kingsley had asked Harry why he’d insisted on waiting until after Draco’s birthday before having the spell removed. Harry knew it would be easier to show him, rather than tell him, so before they had joined Narcissa for lunch, he had asked Draco to share a memory of what Harry had been like right after the spell removal, and had said merely, once Kingsley had returned from viewing it, “Tell me if you’d put the person you love through that on their birthday willingly.” Kingsley had just nodded in understanding. To his surprise, Harry had also learned that Kingsley had brought all of Harry’s medical files – those including the psychology report – to Draco and had closed his personnel records. He’d appreciated that; once they were through the current trial, Harry hoped that nothing else would crop up, some obscure law that they had broken with their relationship. 

The almost-fatherly tone Kingsley had adopted when he’d said, “Harry, you seem happy, and I won’t be the one to take that away from you. You’ve done enough; this is the least I can try to give you. The Ministry owes both of you that much,” had made Harry feel like he’d swallowed a rock. Harry had also noted the perceptible flicker in Draco’s eyes when Kingsley had laid his hand on Harry’s shoulder in a show of support, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he’d smiled and brushed his fingers against the back of Draco’s hand briefly as they moved to the dining room in the suite, while Kingsley’s back was to them. Harry hadn’t missed the twitch in Draco’s fingers, and had found himself oddly at ease, even if he knew that a mediwizard from St Mungo’s, on behalf of the Healers’ Council, would still be coming to interview them.

When Harry realised he’d been gone long enough to occasion comment, he returned to the dining table, stifling the rude yawn that he felt coming. Draco looked at him and then glanced at his mother, interpolating a courteous, innocuous remark that she clearly interpreted as an instruction to leave and take their guest with her. Once they were alone, he told Harry he was putting him to bed, and it was a sign of how tired Harry truly was that he made no protest and let Draco lift him without a word. By the time he was in his pyjamas, he was half-asleep.

“Do I still get you after dinner?” Harry asked, his eyes closed, a faint smile on his face.

Draco gave a soft, affirmative reply, kissing Harry before he left.

****

~*~*~*~

For the first morning in four days, Harry woke up with Draco next to him, his arm still wrapped around Harry’s waist, his fingers lying limp in the small of Harry’s back. Not ready to move yet, glad things had finally gone back to normal, Harry settled for watching Draco as he slept. The past few days had been absolute hell, more so for Draco, but Harry hadn’t been sleeping well in Draco’s absence, and it rattled him to know how close they had actually come to losing everything. It didn’t matter that Draco was willing to set light to everything and watch it burn for Harry any more; just the thought of losing him had made it impossible for him sleep. Draco had remained with Harry until he’d fallen asleep and then returned to the room he’d slept in prior to the change in their relationship status for the duration of the investigation by the Healers’ Council. Uncomfortable and missing Draco’s secure, warm presence, Harry had woken, finding it difficult to return to sleep. To his mind, the disruption in his sleep had been more from the stress of what was going on than the lack of Draco with him, but even that he couldn’t wholly admit as the case. He had missed Draco. Had missed talking to him, had missed feeling him. Even if they had only been sleeping together for a few months, it had felt like longer; and having had something so familiar ripped away had been unsettling.

The first morning had been the worst: Harry had woken up to the bedroom door opening and some idiot mediwizard barking questions and instructions. Because Draco had been with him when he’d gone to sleep, he’d been naked, and it had angered and embarrassed him that the fuckwit had taken it upon himself to walk into the room unbidden, waking Harry, and irritating Draco to the point that the former frosty civility he’d maintained at the outset of Harry’s treatment had returned manifold. The mediwizard had flushed and stammered when Harry had angrily spat that he might level allegations against _him_ for harassment, since he’d been naked and defenceless against the man.

It had tested his patience to every limit as he listened to the mediwizard attempt to explain what he needed. His having offered to let Harry write in his answers to the long parchment of questions had made Harry grateful Draco’s corrosive castigation hadn’t been directed at _him_. Draco had reminded the mediwizard that ‘his patient’ was incapable of manipulating a quill at length and that he would have known that if he had read Draco’s notes. Harry had had to stifle laughing at the poor sod; and when it seemed that the obviously unnerved man had run out of options, Draco had said that Dawlish could sit in on the interview, but only after his patient’s personal care needs had been attended to.

Still territorial, Draco had planted Harry on the toilet, helped him clean his teeth, and fastened their mouths together as he had tossed Harry off with the mediwizard only two doors away. Draco had refused any reciprocation, then had bathed Harry, and taken him to dress. After breakfast, Draco had gone to request Dawlish’s ‘impartial’ presence during the interview, that had taken at least three hours. Under the impression that Harry had become comfortable with the prying questions, the mediwizard had asked about Harry’s lover. By the time the mediwizard had left, Harry had felt proud of himself for the way he’d answered the questions asked of him, and had without batting an eyelash told the mediwizard that Harry’s lover was not with him at present and wouldn’t be until the investigation had concluded. That had irritated the mediwizard, but he had accepted it, and left with his hand aching from having to fill in the answers like a Muggle. He’d also seemed disgruntled by the lack of anything whatever that could possibly be used to incriminate Draco, and had left muttering to himself in irritation. 

More interrogations – because really that was what they had been – had occurred in the days following. Harry had had enough of answering questions for a lifetime. He’d tried to be patient, but it wasn’t until the owl from the Healers’ Council had come at the end of three days of relentless prying into his private affairs – medical and sexual alike – that he or Draco had really been able to abate the tension that had built. The polite letter that had followed three days of constant interruptions and disruption to Mrs Prout’s schedule, Dawlish’s work, Draco’s work, and Harry’s resting had been like aloe against sunburnt skin. _Investigation concluded… no disciplinary measures pending… sincere apologies for any inconvenience caused_ had been the only lines Harry had remembered. Gillick had still been trying to find a way to make life hell for them, but Kingsley had quashed any further attempts at disrupting the occupants of Malfoy Manor by getting involved personally and overtly, with a much-quoted statement about persecution, letting go of old grudges, and respect for privacy, and the way in which these things were at the forefront of his mind, and that he was in no position to confirm or deny any rumours circulating about how tired a certain senior member of his staff had been looking recently. 

That evening, Harry had asked Draco to write a note to Kingsley, thanking him for everything in wonderfully non-specific terms; and with Draco’s steady hand around Harry’s, he had signed his name. 

Harry sighed and spread his fingers over Draco’s back, and adjusted his head on the pillow to see Draco better. He hadn’t slept much, Harry could tell, but even with the shadows under his eyes, he was still handsome, and, much as Harry thought it was an arbitrary observation, beautiful. There was such peace about Draco when he slept that it almost radiated from him.

Abruptly, Draco jerked awake, an unexpected, unfamiliar expression of blind terror worrying Harry. The only thing he could think of was that Draco didn’t like to be watched while he was sleeping, and it occurred to him that _this_ might be why Luna had never watched him. Not knowing what to do, Harry tightened his hold and said, “Shh… sorry. It’s okay.”

Draco twitched and panted a bit in Harry’s embrace.

“Sorry... You never said you didn't— I won't watch you.”

Draco shook his head. “No, no, it's... it's alright. How are you feeling?”

“Worried... I'm sorry. You're... peaceful when you sleep.” Harry kissed Draco softly, then whispered, “ _Beautiful._ ”

“Don't worry about it. I'll get used to it.”

“You don't have to.”

Draco smiled a bit muzzily, then said, “I'd like to.”

Harry smiled in return, as Draco reached out and pulled their lips together for a kiss.

“We’re going to have a bath,” Draco declared then, stretching.

Harry smiled and said, “Alright,” as Draco rose and went to the bathroom. Once he’d cleaned his teeth and been shaved, Draco lowered him into the water slowly, and slid in behind him. Content and relaxed, Harry let his head rest against Draco’s chest, and he closed his eyes, relishing the intimacy.

After wrapping his arms around Harry, with his face in Harry’s hair, Harry began to doze off, as it seemed Draco was doing. And just as Harry was beginning to drift off again, Draco demonstrated he wasn’t asleep at all by remarking, “I've never done this with anyone else, you know. How am I doing?”

“Perfect,” he replied sleepily, a lazy smile on his face, and could feel the smile from Draco against his neck. Even if they still had their bumps, Harry was hardly going to point that out; Draco rarely ever had moments of uncertainty. Just because it wasn’t perfect, didn’t mean Harry didn’t view it that way in some regards. He loved, and was loved by, someone else – that was the only thing that mattered. 

To Be Continued…


	33. Chapter 33

Prodded and sandpapered by the lovely Romany.

****

Chapter 33: Finding One’s Strength

Luna sat, idly playing with the hem of the most normal-looking robes Harry had ever seen her in, apart from those she had worn at Hogwarts. Her expression was dreamy, Harry noted, the lines of her face seeming to radiate the strange glow that dominated her presence. It was calm, ethereal in its own way, like moonlight across an ocean - serene; Harry wondered if she had ever been truly unhappy in her life. Not that he envied that. He was aware, as Draco had said many times, that their pasts had made them into the men they were, and somehow that continued to make the circumstances palatable. 

Watching Luna’s lips continuing to move, though he was ignoring the words, entranced by details about her he’d never taken notice of before, Harry really looked at her features. Her hair, long and much like Draco’s, was knotted with her wand on the top of her head again, a few strands of white-blonde hanging in ringlets that reminded Harry of springs. The blue of her eyes was bright, even if cloudy with whatever clever thought lurked behind them, almost tangible, and her smile was pleasant, like the sun escaping imprisonment from clouds after a spring rain. If Harry really applied some sort of label to her, he supposed he’d consider her attractive, but as a friend, he’d never looked at her so closely.

Then it occurred to him _why_ he was scrutinising her as though she were some sort of specimen in a cage for his judgement: Luna was perfect, not in the ridiculously poetic sense that he’d heard some people ascribe to a woman’s features, but she was the sort of woman whose personality and mind were perfect for passing along to children. And it didn’t hurt that she also had some of the features that Harry was sure the Malfoys prided themselves on. 

“Harry?”

“Luna,” Harry said, acknowledging she’d spoken. “Sorry, I was thinking about something.” His attention was now centred again, the depth of his thoughts rising as though her continued presence willed it.

“It’s quite alright, Harry. Are you feeling well?”

“Uh, yeah, fine.” He smiled, slightly off balance. His stomach lurched a warning as he began to speak, but he ignored it, the words nearly climbing out his mouth. “Luna, would you… be willing to be a surrogate mum for Draco and me?” Harry asked, wondering what her reaction might be if it were a serious proposition. 

“Will I get to fuck you?” she asked, the dreamy expression shifting momentarily to something Harry couldn’t interpret, a prickle of apprehension creeping up his spine at the unusual brightness to her eyes.

“No,” Harry said, his cheeks igniting with colour. “But... would you be willing to do it? I don't even know if you want to have kids... But he needs an heir, and I can't give him that. And he wants to for his family...”

“Oh, no, I don't want children. Not yet, anyway. Rolf and I want to go to Australia and meet a bunyip first. But I'll carry yours whenever you want me to.” She smiled mistily. 

Harry smiled broadly. “You will?”

“I had been wondering when you were going to ask, honestly. And Draco will be happy,” she said, leaning forward confidentially. “I’m a natural blonde, too.” She settled in the chair again, her gaze shifting to the opposite wall of the room. Harry laughed, still shocked it had been so easy. “You should ask Pansy Boot to carry yours,” she was saying. “Her children are more likely to have black hair.”

“Um…” Harry said, on unfamiliar ground. “Wouldn’t it be better to keep the same mum?”

She smiled again. “If you like.” Luna paused for a long moment as her gaze shifted to the garden. When she spoke, it was a wistful tone that Harry didn’t understand. “I’ve always wanted to have sex with you; I’d like that better than anything, you know.” 

Harry’s jaw flapped as though he had no muscles to control it. He had no idea how to respond to that. Deciding that a joke might go over best, he said, “I’ll let you ask Draco,” with a roll of his eyes, though he really hoped she wouldn’t; he wasn’t keen on the idea of Draco eviscerating Luna, or something worse he didn’t even want to let his imagination conjure. 

Luna started to reply, but the door opened, and Draco walked into the sitting room, eying them both.

“Someone taking my name in vain?” he asked. Then, “I know that expression. What are you plotting, Potter?”

“No…” Harry said, smiling. “I asked Luna if she’d be willing to be a surrogate. For you.”

A pale eyebrow rose; he looked both surprised and impressed. “Did you?”

“I agreed, of course,” Luna interjected, her head tilting to the side.

Draco nodded gravely. “You do my house and line great honour.” 

Thrown by Draco’s formal choice in words, Harry looked at Draco, then to Luna, as the prickles apprehension become foreboding as he tried to work out if there was something he should have known before mentioning it. 

“That’s alright,” she returned. “Harry said I have to ask you whether I can fuck him, though.”

Harry looked at Draco quickly, holding his hands up, and took note of the narrowed grey eyes. He then frowned, an expression Harry had never really sussed out in terms of what it meant, just that generally Draco was thinking about something, or was faced with an unexpected tough decision. He wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, just that he seemed to be missing something crucial. Draco hadn’t flat out said ‘no’ to Luna’s statement, and he appeared to be giving the request serious consideration. As all of the lines connected, Harry realised that his having asked Luna if she’d be willing to be a surrogate was a lot bigger than he’d known.

“In the circumstances, I can hardly say no. But not unless he is willing of his free volition, Lovegood.”

“What?” Harry demanded.

Draco sighed, a sound of exasperation rather than regret. “Lovegood has agreed to bear a child for me, which she will then surrender to me entirely. She's entitled to ask a price of her choosing,” he said. Draco glowered at Luna, continuing, “There is traditional wording for the exchange of promises; it would have explained that. She clearly didn’t.”

“I-I,” Harry stammered, his face a bright shade of crimson. An audible _pop_ followed his mouth finally closing. 

“Lovegood, would you be kind enough to go to the library for half an hour or so?”

Harry was pinned in place, as though Draco had physically bound him, by the gaze that never shifted from him as Luna left the room. There was a long moment in which Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Draco was going to say, as he no doubt had ignored a perfectly sound warning in his bones that had accompanied the impulsive drive to make the request. 

“One day, presumably, you will learn to discuss important things before you start charging into arranging them. I can only infer that you’re keen to start a family early. I don’t object, but traditionally this is the sort of thing one discusses with one’s partner; particularly if he’s the one you intend to be the father.” 

Humour was at the heart of the tone, but still Harry felt the weight of guilt and shame as his cheeks darkened. “I-I’m sorry.”

Draco shook his head.

“I don’t know any of this stuff…” Harry’s hands seemed far more interesting than the castigation he felt was sure to follow Draco’s words. After all, he deserved it, when he’d obviously failed to consider the tradition and formality pure-bloods were thickly steeped in. “I didn’t realise just asking if she’d be willing to do it would be taken for actually _doing_ it. I-I didn’t know when she said she’d like… sex with me better than anything that it meant… I didn’t actually ask her _to_ do it, just if she would be _willing_. That’s not really… I—” Harry stopped, ashamed of himself for not making it clear that sex wasn’t an option, that he was only trying to determine whether Luna was remotely interested in the notion of being a surrogate. 

“It's alright, Harry. I appreciate the sentiment behind it.” That lightning bolt of sensation that struck Harry at his name forced him to look up. “And you made the right choice with Lovegood. Her lineage is impeccable and she won’t seek to use this for any unconscionable gain. But there are... very particular traditional wordings and agreements involved that you clearly didn't know about. Because you didn't even discuss this with Mrs Prout or Granger before you spoke to Lovegood.” 

“Like what? I really don't want to have sex with Luna... And it’s not like I had been thinking about it for days or anything. She was here, a-and I thought of it while she was talking; just felt like the right thing to ask…”

Draco sighed, accepting Harry’s stammered explanation with a wave of his hand. “Like according her fair recompense for her gift to the line. What she has asked – if that _is_ a serious request – is... well, it's not unusual. Not in situations like ours, at least. You're entitled to refuse, if your feelings forbid you to acquiesce; tradition isn't totally inhumane, but... it's a fairly serious breach of protocol.” Draco hesitated for a moment. “I don't want you to take umbrage or feel wounded, but I have to ask this. What are your reasons for not wanting to sleep with her?”

“Because we’re together,” Harry said, appalled that Draco really had to ask. “I think she meant more if she had a child for me... But you can't always tell with Luna.”

Draco smiled faintly. “That's certainly true.” He inhaled and exhaled measuredly. “Our relationship is the only real bar? If you were single, and she propositioned you, you'd be inclined to oblige her?”

“No... I don't know. Luna's always been a friend - she has propositioned me before, by the way - and she's married now. I know she and Rolf have their arrangements... but I can't do that.”

Draco nodded. “I can only honour - and be honoured by - your feelings on the subject. But I would be remiss in my obligations to you and to custom and practice if I didn't tell you plainly that, in this matter, on this occasion, I wouldn't... withhold my consent to your accepting her terms if you were so inclined.” With his stilted speech, it was obvious that Draco didn’t actually like the idea very much, and that it was taking him choking on it before he could actually swallow it. He regarded Harry very carefully. “Understand that I don't _want_ you to sleep with her. That's not what I'm saying at all. But I wouldn't... I wouldn't feel betrayed or dishonoured if you did. In this context. Once.”

“Luna holds onto what she likes, though. You know that. You’ve been with her,” Harry said, his tone a bit harder than it probably should have been. 

“Up to a point, yes. But she doesn't see sexual relations in the way you do. She doesn't interpret it as anything more than a pleasant activity best enjoyed with a dear friend. You would be in no more danger from her forming an unsuitable emotional attachment to you than I was. She would enjoy you, and let you go in the morning without reproach, reservation, or regret.” Draco shrugged. “As she did me.”

“It wouldn't be right,” Harry said. “When Ginny touched me at the party, it felt completely _wrong_. And we'd been together for years...”

Draco nodded. 

“I told you I don't give that part of me to just anyone.”

“I have no desire to compel or persuade you to something you do not wish to do. We shall have to see if there is something else she'll be prepared to accept,” Draco reassured him, with a look and tone that suggested he was connecting the links in possible chains of events and their outcomes and making up his mind on each one. 

Unsure, and scared that his beliefs didn’t overlap with Draco’s, Harry turned to look out the window, needing to focus his attention on something other than the steadily increasing rap of his heart against his chest like angry knuckles against a door. He felt the pressure of Draco’s hand against his arm, and turned to look at it, his head snapping back to the window. Meeting Draco’s gaze then would be almost impossible. 

“Potter. Look at me.”

Slowly, Harry looked up, seeing Draco frown.

“You’re going to have to explain it.”

Confusion pushed his eyebrows down. “To Luna?”

“No, to me. Something's still bothering you.”

Hours-old breakfast seemed to tumble around in Harry’s stomach like gnomes fighting for vegetables in the garden. The mid-morning sunlight glinted off something, drawing Harry’s attention, and he spoke slowly, unable to look at Draco. “I don't share,” he said, his voice coming from somewhere else. “That means me – what I give you is all of me. And because it's all of me, I don’t want you to have to share that – or me have to share you and what you give to me – with anyone else.” Harry knew if his words were as confusing to Draco as they were to him that the point wouldn’t be made. “We’re together. No one else. There is no... difference to me. I know that hasn't been for you... but that’s how it is for me.”

“So if her price is me, not you...?”

Harry shook his head.

“Alright.”

Bracing himself, Harry tensed. He felt like a rock, just waiting to be kicked away like detritus littering a near-pristine footpath. He realised that his feelings weren’t the only ones that some people adopted – Luna, for example, had no qualms whatever with having a one-off with someone, or holding onto them if they had satisfied her intellectually or physically – but Harry had only known what he’d learnt at Ginny’s side, what he’d seen with the Weasleys, his friends. Even though they were a pure-blood family, the Weasleys had never adhered to the traditions Harry had found himself faced with in the Malfoy home, and it was odd to him that no matter what he learned, there was always something else lurking just out of sight, some other tradition or observation that he hadn’t asked about. Content in his ignorance, Harry had never given any circumstances that might contradict his beliefs any thought. 

But if he refused, Draco would have to find someone else to bear him an heir, someone who would probably be less suitable, someone he wasn’t fond of. Harry couldn’t imagine asking anyone else – particularly since he didn’t _know_ anyone else who might be willing to bear a child for them. Luna had all of the characteristics Harry was wise enough to know that Draco could appreciate, that were all attributes he could countenance being passed on to his heir. It wasn’t fair, Harry felt, that he was taking the best option away because he was unwilling to share a bed with Luna for one night, if that was her price. 

“But it’s not fair to you, is it?” Harry asked quietly. Draco made no response, and Harry still hadn’t found the ability to turn and face him. “You want - need - an heir. And I can't give you one. But she can... I'm not a pure-blood anyway... so it wouldn't matter if I could.” Harry laughed nervously, anything to chase away the live wires attached to him. 

“You're more important,” he said, a little more sharpness to his tone. “I won't knowingly do anything to distress you. And your blood status is wholly immaterial. If you were female, or it were otherwise possible, I would be proud to have you bear my children. Or to bear yours.”

“But it's not. So if that's all she wants...” Harry trailed off, some emotion he couldn’t identify bubbling to the surface at Draco’s words.

“She may be persuadable to something else. And if she isn't, I'll find someone else.” 

Draco’s words were directed in such a way that Harry received the impression he would have more success arguing with a mountain; it was a tone he hadn’t heard in some time. 

“How many other witches would you honestly be satisfied with?” Harry asked. Draco had already agreed Luna was the best choice.

“It doesn't matter. There'll be someone. There are witches outside Britain, in any case,” Draco said dismissively.

“Like you said, though; Luna wouldn't use it for anything unconscionable.”

“And so she wouldn't, but if she's fixed on sleeping with you as her price for bearing my heir, I will find someone else. You don't want to do it, and I respect your feelings in the matter. Don't worry about it, Potter,” Draco said, that rare sincere tone of his coming through.

The volte face Draco was making did nothing to ease the discomfort Harry felt. If he couldn’t square something – even with Draco’s unquestioning permission, a statement that it was just a transaction, in essence – so important with his conscience, in the face of the sort of sacrifices Draco was making to be with him, then what sort of partner was he? It was a sacrifice he had to ask himself if he was willing to make so that they could have a proper family together. It was something Draco was willing to have with Harry, and no matter how troubled he was about it, he knew their options were limited. 

Luna was a brilliant witch, and she was also someone they both cared about – who also cared about them; a friend, someone Harry considered part of the family he had acquired over the years. He also trusted her. The only other witch Harry could think of was Hermione, and he imagined that Draco would veto that – not because she wasn’t a pure-blood – because they really didn’t get on that well still, and the odds of Hermione being willing to surrender the child to them completely, without interfering were negligible. Even if Draco said blood status didn’t matter, Narcissa seemed to retain some of her old ideas in the matter, and asking someone else, someone they knew nothing about, whose family and views and character they knew nothing about, who might demand something even less palatable, wasn’t an option. 

Paying money for a child – that wasn’t something Harry wanted to contemplate. It just felt _wrong_ to him. Any child they had would not be a bargaining chip or some reason for a greedy witch to take advantage of their genuine desire for a family. The only option, as far as Harry could see – if they didn’t want to have a child that wasn’t their completely – was to give Luna what she wanted as payment. 

“I— If she can't be persuaded... or doesn't want anything else... I'll ... do it. For you.”

A tense sigh sounded beside him. “I won't have you wound yourself to give me an heir, Potter. It's not worth that. You'd never be able to look the child in the eye if you felt that you'd betrayed yourself to get him,” Draco said. “You'd never be able to meet your own gaze in a mirror, either. And I don't care to have you resent me for it for the rest of our lives, come to that.”

Looking up, Harry earnestly said, “If that's what it takes... I'll do it.”

Draco eyed him narrowly. “I don't want you doing something you'll regret for the rest of our lives.”

Shrugging, Harry said, “This is what you want. It's no different than me asking you – forcing you, really – to be my lover, when it ran counter to something you felt strongly about.” A frown pulled at Draco’s lips. “You need an heir. I want you to have an heir. I want a proper family with you. I’ve… never had that, a family, and I have it with you – who’s going to be my—” Harry hesitated slightly, unfamiliar with thinking of Draco in a more permanent term, “— _husband_ – and my friends, but it’s not the same as having _our_ children, _our_ family – Draco and Harry Malfoy’s family,” he tried to explain. “Doing this… it doesn't change that I'm yours... that you have all of me, does it?” Harry was aware that he was pleading for a reassurance, disliking that he needed it.

“Don't be ridiculous. As if it could! Of course it doesn’t.” Draco hunkered down next to Harry, his gaze fixed. “Potter, the commitment between us is more than physical. It always has been.”

Harry smiled faintly, returning his attention to the garden. Draco’s hand caught his chin, forcing eye contact.

“It's more than that,” he said firmly. “But you don't have to do this. Even if she's serious, even if there's nothing else we can offer her, you don't have to do this. We can find somebody else.” Draco’s hand fell away to rest on Harry’s thigh; and Harry didn’t look away. 

“It's not like I don't know – haven't known – her for years. She's the best choice. You said that yourself. This is as much for me as it is you, in a way. She suggested Parkinson for me, but... You haven't said whether you want more than just an heir... I admit... I never thought it would be this complicated, but this is... for you. _Us._ Right?”

Appearing irritated and impatient, Draco said, “On the face of it, on the information and evidence available at present, yes, she's the best choice. But that doesn't mean that I – we – wouldn't be able to find somebody else, who'd want something different,” Draco said. “As for more than just an heir... I have to admit that I’ve never really considered it. It would be reassuring to have a second son as well; I remember several occasions of my mother and father panicking because I'd injured myself and it could have been the end of the line. I thought you wanted a large family, though. You mentioned it several times in vocational interviews.” 

“You’ve… read that?” Harry asked, his face flushing brilliantly. 

Draco looked bewildered. “Of course I have. It's in your medical records. All of your occupational health information is. So, yes, I know about that unfortunate incident with the... well, you know the one.”

Harry supposed he’d never considered mortification having a flavour or a distinct sensation, but it did, and he was aware of the strange combination of prickles and flares it aroused in him.

Draco laughed gently. “Yes, I know all your embarrassing little medical secrets. _That_ never occurred to you as a downside of having your Healer for a lover, did it?”

Harry shook his head, knowing he needed to drag things back on topic. “We can worry about more later. For now... If those are Luna's terms... I... I accept .”

Draco’s expression was dubious as he said, “Don't agree to it if you have even the faintest shadow of a suspicion of a reservation. It’s too important.” 

_Us? An heir?_ Draco was willing to give up his chance at an heir, with a surrogate that he approved of, for Harry’s comfort. He’d be an idiot to take this away from Draco, and it meant more to him than he knew how to express that Draco was willing to sacrifice all of that for him. _So why,_ he asked himself, _can I not do the same?_

“I love you,” Harry said quietly. “Having sex with Luna wouldn't change that. I can't think of anything else she'd want. She... just isn't that sort of person; and I can't... see paying her to have a child – that's just wrong... to me. She’s a person, not an… an animal that we bought and paid for, just to breed them. Feels like the child wouldn’t be ours… And I’m definitely not comfortable with a stranger, someone we know nothing about, who could ask for worse or use this against us. I just… I’d rather we have children with someone we know.” He sighed. “I’m not giving her _me_.”

After a long look, Draco finally said, “No. That's mine, as I am yours. But for all we know, she may be amenable to something else. She's always liked the cottage in Snowdonia.” He quirked a smile. “She’s always been fascinated by the ballroom curtains and the rococo epergne, too.”

While he acknowledged that Draco was attempting to make him laugh, part of Harry felt like he was still in the Forest of Dean, chasing shadows and trying desperately not to fall apart. He needed, more than anything, for this decision, after his agreement, to be taken out his hands. It wasn’t that he felt he was incapable of it, but if he was given any more time to contemplate it, he would renege on his promise to Draco and possibly force a division that he wasn’t sure he could handle, between them. The choice to give Luna what she wanted wasn’t one with personal gratification in mind; it was a sacrifice out of love, something that vast sums of money and ballroom curtains wouldn’t be. If Luna wanted something else, he realised, he’d probably think less of her for it, when her price showed she knew exactly what she was giving them in return – something precious that they would value as they should, rather than just continuing a blood line. A night with Harry was the hardest thing she could have asked for; Harry’s choice, sacrifice, would make their child as much Harry’s as Draco’s, even if Draco was the biological father. 

“Then we need to find out. And if we're going to have more than one child... we need to know what else she'll want.”

“How many children do you want? You've given the notion more active consideration than I have.”

“I don’t know… two. At Least.” _Maybe three? Or four?_ “I didn't think this through… _obviously_. I just... I know you're fond of Luna, and you said you would need an heir.” Reflexively, Harry went to run his fingers through his hair, but Draco caught his hand and kissed it.

“I will, in due course. And I like Lovegood a great deal, as you say. But you're more important to me than the future of the line. And there are other witches.”

It occurred to Harry to wonder what sort of grace smiled down on him as he heard Draco’s words. He knew that Draco wasn’t a self-sacrificing individual by nature, but he seemed to put the extra effort in just for Harry, and that was something he found, that no matter how exquisite, he couldn’t accept this time. Fear that things would change once it was all over gnawed at Harry, but this was how things were going to happen for them. That, or they’d end up with someone neither of them wholly agreed with; and Luna was a witch who Harry could, without a doubt, say he had no problems with bearing children for them.

“Draco, as long as… It’ll be fine. We’ll work it out. If you’re ready, we can ask Luna back.”

It was, Harry felt, with reluctance, that Draco left to ask Luna to return to the sitting room. He took the time to steady his nerves, remind himself that what he was doing wasn’t betraying what he and Draco had, and that while he was uneasy, it was also the best route for them to have a family, a proper family – regardless of blood ties. When they returned, Harry told Luna that he was willing to accept her terms, after they’d made sure there was nothing – as Harry had already suspected – else she wanted in return. Harry didn’t argue when she said she only wanted one night with him for three children – hadn’t expected Draco would say three, but it still made him feel an odd sense of happiness. Luna had, to Harry’s grateful surprise, said that she didn’t require any payment, that she was willing to carry the children anyway, but Draco had instantly and unequivocally shot that down. Harry understood the reasoning well enough, even without knowing the obscure tangle of pure-blood lore wrapped around it: Luna would have a claim to the child if a suitable agreement wasn’t made, and that couldn’t be countenanced, personally or legally. Their lives were connecting fully, all of the pieces falling into place. The one thing he’d always envied about Ron and Hermione, Harry finally had. He was willing, as he had told Draco, to do anything for him; this was just another of the edges sliding together, as far as he was concerned. For that, he’d give anything. 

Harry was vaguely aware of Draco asking Luna when she’d like to proceed. Her reply made his head snap up so quickly it made him slightly dizzy. _Tonight?_ Blinking to clear his vision, Harry caught Draco’s objection. He smiled at that.

“It’s probably better now…” Harry found himself saying, against all rational thought. He supposed if he did it that night, he had no chance to back out, no opportunities to doubt himself or Draco. 

The sharp look Draco shot him made Harry stop and think before speaking. 

“Do you think I want to wait until we're married? Or... what? It'd be easier... to do it now... Wouldn't it?”

“He's Harry no matter what condition he's in,” Luna said, prompting Draco to level a suspicious gaze at her. “Besides - you two have had sex.”

Those grey eyes narrowed, then Draco reset his expression. He inclined his head in acquiescence. “If you're comfortable with that, Potter, then so be it.”

“What I'm...” Harry started to say, but stopped himself, making an active effort to think about what he said. “It's fine.”

“I'm curious about your motives, Lovegood. If you merely wanted him sexually, you could have approached him in another context.”

“It’s obvious,” she said. “I’ve always loved Harry.”

Harry had never known she felt that way. Turning to look at her, he noticed Draco’s eyes narrow again. 

“If he hadn't been with Ginny, we’d have been together.”

“Really.” Draco’s tone was flat.

“Harry's one of the kindest people I know, and he has always been a good friend.” Luna’s expression looked uncharacteristically serious for a moment. “But he's got you now. And I know he won't give that up. I don't want to come between you. He's as much family as a friend.”

“W-why didn't you tell me?” Harry asked, confused.

“Because I love you enough not to change how things are supposed to be.”

There was a long moment where Harry tried to make sense of everything Luna had just said. But further contemplation was interrupted when Draco said, “You and I will discuss exactly what you are and are not permitted to do to him in detail.”

There was so much going on, so much Harry was having to process suddenly, as though he was being shown the truth for the first time. He supposed it made sense the way Luna had always stayed close by, had always been willing to listen if he needed it. As a friend, she had always been there for Harry – no matter what the circumstances.

“Of course, Draco,” Luna said, her attention reverting to the garden.

“Then I shall instruct Mrs Prout to prepare my old room—” Draco nodded at the relevant door, “—and inform her that Lovegood will be here overnight. Lovegood, perhaps you should contact your husband.”

Luna nodded, and Draco left them alone, Harry staring out the window.

“He really will be fine, you know. He knows I’m not a threat,” Luna said a few moments after the door had closed. “And while I understand Draco’s side of this – it’s tradition, after all – I wouldn’t be able to love curtains the way I love you. They don’t talk back, and aren’t nearly as pretty, and they don’t have your eyes. And it wouldn’t mean anything to them, either. I will always remember a night with you.”

“I know... it's—” Harry inhaled. “So you've known this for how long? Since you told me we'd be together? When you were at St Mungo's? Hermione told me you were there.”

Luna shrugged. “I've watched you both for a long time. It was obvious. You were both broken, and the pieces... had the right shapes. You make a new pattern.” She smiled that distant smile, the one clouded by mist and what Harry thought could have been a sense of twilight. “And it's beautiful.”

“And how will Rolf feel that you're doing this for us?”

“He'll be happy. He likes you both; he'll be pleased to see you happy.”

Harry smiled softly. “I didn't know you felt that way. About me.”

“Of course I do.” She seemed dimly surprised. 

“S’ppose it makes sense why Ginny was always so jealous of you, then.” Harry laughed.

“Yes.” Luna smiled knowingly.

“Thank you. I mean... this is weird for me, but I'll do it for him.”

Luna tipped her head to one side. 

“You should do it for yourself, too, or not do it at all.”

“It is,” Harry assured her. “He’s my family.”

Her gaze turned to something behind Harry’s left shoulder. “It really isn’t about sex, you know.”

Harry was slightly confused. If it wasn’t about sex, when she’d asked for that specifically, then what was it about? He wanted Luna to clarify, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to make sense of her logic, any more than Draco was able make sense of Harry’s when he discussed things in terms of emotion.

“I just... never thought you, uh, wanted that. From me. A long time ago, before Ginny and me got back together... I was too busy working and... I suppose you were with Draco then. You met Rolf after Ginny and me got back together. Is that why you didn't... ever tell me? Then you said something, after I got... sick. Or whatever this is.”

“You didn’t need to know,” she said, and Harry had the sense that she wasn’t even talking to him. She looked at him briefly as if she’d never seen him before and couldn’t quite decide what he was, her attention sliding back to the garden as she spoke again. “You and I wouldn't have worked as a couple, anyway. You want someone to keep. You can keep Draco, and he'll keep you, too. I don't belong to anyone, and I don't want anyone to belong to me, either.” She sighed softly. “It wouldn't have worked.” She looked at him again. “I'd have broken you worse than Ginny did.”

“Well… thanks, I think,” Harry said, more than a little perplexed. He appreciated her honesty, at least. 

“I’ll go Floo Rolf,” she said suddenly, and glided from the room like morning fog before sunlight.

Alone, Harry made his way into the garden, letting the sights and sounds distract him. Draco wouldn’t be back for some time – he’d need to reset himself like a Muggle machine – and Harry tried to think of the positives. 

“Harry?” Mrs Prout’s voice was a surprise. “Are you alright?”

Turning to face her, Harry smiled. “S’ppose so.”

“Mr Malfoy suggested you might like me to join you for lunch.”

Harry nodded. “He won’t be back for a while, then,” he said, mostly to himself.

“He's in his study, I think. He said something about checking dosages.”

 _Dosages?_ Harry nodded. “I never did thank you, Eleanor, for everything you did for Draco's birthday.” Harry smiled. “What’s for lunch?”

“Oh, it was my pleasure, dear. I've made nice chicken pie today, unless you'd prefer some of the liver casserole I made for Miss Hermione?”

“Oh, no, chicken is fine,” he said. “I think… shall we eat out here?” It was a lovely day; Harry saw no reason to go back inside just yet. Looking at that bedroom would only make his stomach twist even more than it already was. 

“If you like. Just let me fetch the things.”

Mrs Prout left Harry as he settled at the table, returning quickly with their lunch. Trying to act normally was difficult – eating was even harder. With an effort he hadn’t had to employ since Hightrees, he chewed, swallowed, and took another bite, barely tasting the pie. Aware that something was amiss, Mrs Prout probed tactfully, and Harry couldn’t even attempt to disguise his relief at having someone uninvolved to talk to. At the end of the faltering explanation about what Luna wanted, Mrs Prout smiled, and patted Harry’s hand, her face aflame as she murmured sensitive questions and delicate explanations. What he really wanted to do was give her a hug for her help, even if it was nothing more than she’d probably do with her own child; and that, Harry reflected, was something that only made him respect and cherish her presence more. When they were done, Harry asked her to send Draco to him, as he wanted to lie down for a while, rest and get his bearings. He arrived shortly after Mrs Prout had left, and helped Harry into his pyjamas, then into bed. Harry hadn’t expected Draco to stay, but he did, curling up with him. It was with some effort, but Harry managed to keep his thoughts clear. As he was falling asleep, he said, “Eleanor… I'd like her to stay. And not have to have the Unbreakable. Is that... alright with you?”

A reassuring kiss was pressed against his cheek. “Anything you like.” 

Sleep cradled Harry for some time, ethereal arms enfolding him until there was only the sound of Draco’s voice and the touch of his hand as Harry woke. He smiled, but it was gone as quickly as the sun was hidden by clouds, casting a shadow over his mood. Tension hung thick between them at the dining table like a veil of mist that refused to part. If he could have reached out, removed the barrier, Harry would have; anything not to feel the rock that seemed to be anchoring him in place. Draco, for the most part, was silent, but Harry couldn’t deal with it. The intermittent sounds of their knives and forks against the plates wasn’t usual, and he found it discomforting that what was happening that evening had reduced them to heavy silence and only a brief confirmation that the legal portion of Luna’s agreement had already been taken care of.

“Do you think Kingsley is ready to come for dinner again?” Harry asked, his gaze settled on Draco. Now that the investigation by the Healers’ Council and the Ministry had been concluded, Harry wondered whether or not everything else would go back to normal, too. He was hardly the most perceptive of people, but he likened the way Kingsley looked at Narcissa to the same way he looked at Draco, only Kingsley wasn’t a Hippogriff about it; he was a Thestral. 

“Not without an invitation. He has perfectly acceptable manners, for an Auror.”

“I meant, should we invite him again?” Harry asked, then more to himself, said, “I wonder how long before someone else will think they're capable of being Minister...”

Draco snorted. “Half the Wizengamot thinks that at any given time. How long before someone tries a coup is an entirely different question.” 

The laugh that shook Harry was tense. “Even better I had you take that out of the letter, now.” He took a sip from his glass.

A perfunctory smile lifted Draco’s lips. “If he doesn't know that without a warning from a despicable Malfoy—” Harry set his glass down harder than he should, the table rattling slightly, “—he has no business being Minister. You don't have to babble. I won't start asking awkward questions if you let yourself be quiet.” 

“Fine,” Harry said tightly.

Draco regarded him for a long moment. “Potter, my family has been vilified for as long as I can remember. The last four generations have been inclined to the Dark. ‘Despicable’ is the least of the things you'll hear said about me and mine when you marry into this family.” 

“I don't think you're despicable.” An ache ran through Harry’s jaw and teeth as he tried to prevent himself from saying something that would only make things worse.

Draco smirked. “Then my cunning disguise is working admirably.” 

Harry thought silence was the most prudent option, and, folding his hands in his lap, he looked down, less inclined to speak if his attention wasn’t captured by Draco’s face.

Sighing, Draco said, “Harry, look at me, please.” 

Harry’s head snapped up at the current that rolled over his skin, though he was still restraining his anger with some effort.

Draco did not shrink from the intensity of Harry’s gaze, or the anger he must have seen crackling in it. “It was an ill-judged joke, and I apologise. I'm... as uneasy as you are. I don't handle nerves well. I never have.” Draco grimaced slightly, and Harry suspected that he wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t been living with the other man for so long. “But even you have to admit that I'm... not exactly a paragon of all the saintly virtues.”

“Neither am I.”

“For which I am daily grateful. But there's a reason for the inscription on Pansy's gifts, you know.” 

“How you treat everyone else... I couldn't care less.” Part of him hoped that one day Draco would realise not everyone was worth his energy. Former vindictive streak aside, Harry also knew that it was the strange, broken way Draco showed he cared for another person. If he was vicious enough, if he struck hard enough and fast enough, those he loved wouldn’t be harmed by foolish people – or that was the only way Harry could interpret it, after having been told in so many words that Draco would persist in making people understand that those close to him were off limits, and that nobody who valued his health and happiness should risk Draco’s wrath by pursuing those to whom he had extended his protection. 

Draco’s fingers twitched as he spoke. “You will never have anything to fear from me. You shouldn't be marrying me if you don't know that.” 

In response, Harry said, in earnest tones, the only thing he knew that might illustrate his feelings, “I know that we could both break one another completely. But I trust you not to.”

A brief nod followed Harry’s statement, the tip of Draco’s tongue trapped between his own teeth. It was unfair, Harry thought, that their options were limited; all he wanted to do was let Draco follow through on his desire to touch and taste Harry. He knew, now, what it meant when Draco looked at him that way, and, despite the tension, his body responded to it, as though the movement of Draco’s tongue against his own mouth was a caress against Harry’s skin. 

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked, breathing in short puffs as his heart pounded an accompaniment to his growing arousal. 

“How you taste.”

“Wish I could get on my knees,” Harry said breathlessly, a slow burn crawling up his face as their eyes remained focussed on one another. His lower lip began to ache with the tight hold he’d captured it in between his teeth. After Draco muttered something he didn’t catch, he seemed to regain his composure enough to speak. 

“I think I shall bathe you now.”

“Alright.” Harry’s tone was husky and dripping arousal. Without prompt or aid, he stripped his shirt quickly, and kept his eyes on Draco, watching each movement as he approached, then lifted Harry with all of the beautiful, restrained fire that Harry had come to love about Draco.

Taken to the bathroom, undressed, and placed on the toilet, Harry sat back as Draco’s mouth moved over his skin, his lover clearly in the mood to remind Harry who he would be waking up to, who he would be with once all was said and done. Harry didn’t need a reminder; he knew exactly where he wanted to be. Draco restrained himself from leaving any marks on Harry – other than his semen when Harry asked for it. Harry wasn’t as cautious, though. And when Draco didn’t voice any objection to Harry’s vigorous assault, Harry left a reddish stain on Draco’s collarbone, one that he traced with his tongue more than once as Draco bathed him.

****

~*~*~*~

Draco carried Harry through to his old bedroom, placing him in the bed. Harry’s nerves hadn’t lessened much, but he was calmer than he had been at dinner. Draco reached for something on the bedside table that Harry wasn’t paying attention to. In his palm, there were two Muggle pills, and Harry reached out without question and put them on his tongue, accepting the glass of water Draco held in his hand, drinking enough to wash away the bitter taste of the medication. 

“What was it for?” he asked.

“To... make tonight easier on you. Help you relax.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks.” He smiled.

“If you don't want to go through with it—” 

“I told you I would.”

“But you don't have to.” The undertone of urgency was slightly reassuring to Harry.

“Just... don't let things be different in the morning,” Harry said, full of grim determination. If it had been anyone but Luna asking it of him, and if the stakes had been any lower, he’d have refused completely, no matter what it meant for both of them.

Draco’s fingers twitched, and Harry smiled. “They won't be.”

“You can touch me,” Harry said, looking up. “I want you to.”

Quirking a smile, Draco hesitated. “If I do, it's entirely possible that I won't let go and won't let her in.” Colour rose on Draco’s face as he turned and crossed briskly to the window. The admission, however simple, was enough to keep Harry from reaching out. “Lovegood... she won't... push you. She won't ask much of you. Nothing... bizarre.”

Despite his nervousness, Harry laughed. “Alright.” He took a moment to contemplate why he was doing this again, and sought some sort of balance in the unknown of what was going to happen. Curious, he asked, “Have you got a name in mind? Ron was on about how Mrs Weasley was trying to get Hermione to pick a family name. So I assume you've already done that?”

“I... I've given it some thought. But the choice isn't mine alone. My heir will be yours, too,” Draco replied, his fingers restlessly fiddling with the curtains. Harry found the visible manifestation of Draco’s undisguised anxiety oddly reassuring; his body relaxed of its own accord, the tension moving along his legs until it seemed to reach his feet and drain. It could have been the medication working already, but Harry didn’t care; conversing with Draco was enough of a distraction for him.

“What names have you thought of?”

“I had thought... it's a tradition in my mother's family, your godfather's family, to use the names of constellations. Andromeda, Sirius, Draco, Phoenix... and so on.”

“Alright,” Harry said, waiting for Draco to continue.

“If you prefer a Muggle name—” 

Having come a long way in understanding Draco, Harry knew that his offer for a Muggle name was a way to involve him, since it wouldn’t be Harry’s child biologically. He found it odd – not in a bad way – that Draco was willing to abandon any thought that seemed to run counter to anything Harry might want.

“No. It's fine. I like it. Will have a family tradition.” A small smile played at Harry’s lips as he turned his head. Sometimes he couldn’t believe what he had was real, that after so much, he finally had something he’d always wanted, and with someone he loved deeply, regardless of his current circumstances. The connection, however tenuous at times, was enough to hold and cherish in a way he’d always hoped he’d have. 

A smile flickered on Draco’s face. “I thought... well, 'Scorpius' hasn't been used in several generations. The last Scorpius was a teacher at Hogwarts.”

Mouthing the name, Harry smiled. “I like it.” 

“Or there was an Orion, once. He was a very early version of an Auror; and in later life he was one of the Wizengamot Chamber appointed to identify and classify Dark magics.” 

Wondering, but not minded to ask, if Draco was deliberately choosing antecedents without the sticky history of Draco’s own father, Harry took a moment to consider the names before saying, “Use both.” A creeping feeling of drunkenness began to fill Harry, making everything seem out of focus and distant.

Draco blinked. “I wasn't sure if you'd want your father's name.”

“No. I appreciate it... but— No,” Harry said. “You’re not using yours. That and Scorpius James or Orion James or any of that wouldn’t sound right, would it?” He laughed slightly, the sound seeming to come out bent and uneven. “And my father... I used to think he was a good man.” Looking up, Harry saw that Draco had turned, leaning against the windowsill, his expression clearly affectionate, despite the way the room had begun to sway and warp as though he was under water. “But I had believed everything someone else told me. But... Snape... I saw some of his memories, in the fifth year when he tried to teach me Occlumency. And... the way I was treated at school - like I was so much more than I was just because I was the Boy Who Lived – when I wasn’t anything special, really… I'd rather that not happen with him – them.”

Draco nodded. “Which is why you're willing to take my name.”

“Yes. And I… don’t mind taking your name, either. Will feel… part of you – your family. Be yours in name, too.” He paused for a long time, trying to orientate himself. Whatever Draco had given him was working quickly, twisting his thoughts and making him relax. Turning his head, he looked at Draco again, a soft smile on his face. “Snape loved my mum...” Draco’s head jerked quickly, as though he wasn’t sure he’d heard Harry properly. “Makes sense now why he was the way he was toward me. More than the way I acted. That, and I, um, look just like my dad. Just… my mum’s eyes…” 

“Well, that explains quite a lot. I had no idea. Poor Snape.”

“They're my parents, but... I think it's better if we… do what we want,” Harry was saying, his words jumbling together. “Not be Harry Potter's son – so obviously.”

“Then they shall all be Malfoys.” 

The familiar, comforting rhythm of Draco’s speech reached into Harry, almost grounding him while everything else slipped away, nothing else but hearing that voice seeming important. “And that's... happy.” The rest of the words seemed to run away before Harry could get them out, a fracture of a sentence to convey what he felt would have to be enough; he hoped Draco would understand.

Crossing the room, Draco took Harry’s glasses off his face, gently stroking Harry’s cheek. “I'll need to send for Lovegood in a few moments.” 

“Mmm. ’Lright,” Harry said, turning toward the touch. Vaguely aware, in a remote part of his mind, that he wanted Draco to stay, Harry sighed happily at the touch against his skin. 

“If you change your mind at any point, tell her so. She'll leave, and hold nothing against you.” 

“Mm'kay.”

There was a light kiss against Harry’s forehead, the warmth of the other man’s palm against his face still, as Draco said, “I'll see you in the morning.” 

Harry reached up and touched Draco’s face, his eyes half-lidded, as the spark of sensation moved through his fingertips. “I love you.” 

Instead of flinching, Draco smiled softly, then bent down to kiss Harry again. “I love you, too. It'll be alright, Harry. I promise.”

****

~*~*~*~

Familiarity surrounded Harry as he woke, sunlight streaming across his back and shoulders, glinting off pale hair. Blinking a few times, he realised, from the feel of solid muscle beneath his touch, to the length of hair, he was with Draco, in their bed. With only a vague recollection of the evening before, he was oddly content, and tightened his hold around the smooth body resting in front of his. He closed his eyes again, his slowly rising thoughts interrupted by Draco asking, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I think,” Harry replied, confused, but happy that he didn’t seem to remember much more than the time Draco had spent with him before Luna had entered the room. “You brought me back.” And he’d been bathed, too. All he smelt was Draco’s familiar scent, mixed with his. Harry smiled as Draco kissed the top of his head. “I don’t remember when. Or much of anything else, come to that.”

“A while ago,” Draco said. “Lovegood has gone home to her husband.” He paused for a moment. “The medication I gave you had mildly amnestic properties.” Apparently noting the look of confusion in Harry’s face, Draco continued, “It would have helped you not remember as well as relax.” 

“Thank you. For... helping. Helping me not remember, I mean.” Of the hazy, disconnected things Harry could remember, most were just abstract feelings: a sense of security and safety; being cherished and loved; and feeling wanted and attractive. His brow furrowed in thought as he tried to piece things together, make sense of what had happened after Draco had left. “It felt like you were there. To me, anyway.”

“I was, for a time.”

“You were?” That surprised Harry, though he didn’t know why.

Draco nodded. “You called for me. I was never further away than the other side of the door, in any case.”

“I did?” he asked, bewildered.

“I think— we both thought that you took her for me, at one point,” Draco said. “You weren't distressed; you just… wanted me.”

“I don't need to know what happened. I'm where I want to be now... and it's over.” He tightened his hold on Draco, and exhaled in relief. “As long... as nothing changes.”

Draco kissed Harry’s forehead. “Nothing will change between us.” Then, he hesitated, adding, “You don't want to know what did happen, but you may... be reassured to know that you didn't have sex with her.”

And like having ice pressed against burning skin, the cool relief spread through Harry, making the tightening of his muscles subside. Curious, though, he wondered whether the price had been paid to Luna’s satisfaction; not remembering the events from the previous evening fully didn’t mean he lacked the desire to know if he’d fulfilled the bargain, if he and Draco would have their children. “And... she's fine with that? For... having the children?”

Confirming, Draco nodded again. “That wasn't what she wanted.”

“Then...? I don't understand. Why did she say that?”

Pausing, Draco’s face screwed up slightly before he replied, “She just wanted... to love you for a night.”

“Alright,” Harry said, then a smile crept across his lips as he remembered some of their conversation. “Scorpius.” 

The surprised expression on Draco’s face caught Harry’s attention, amusing him. “I didn't know how much of that you'd remember. The drug is fairly fast-acting.” He paused a moment. “I hadn’t intended to hold you to anything you said then. You weren’t entirely of a sound mind, at that point.” 

“Mmm, I remember that.” Harry’s lips were still turned up at the corners, another memory, as much emotional as visual, surfacing in his thoughts, the same warmth he’d felt then suffusing his bones. “Was I dreaming when you said you loved me?” he asked. Beneath his hand, the muscles in Draco’s back became like armour against the loosed arrow of his question. Knowing that Draco disliked talking about those things didn’t alleviate the desire to know whether Harry had concocted something in his addled mind to ease his own nerves, or if Draco had actually said the words Harry felt sure he’d never hear uttered even in the most extreme of circumstances. 

“No.”

Somewhere between appreciation and awe, Harry managed to say, “I know you don't... you don't say things that way. I know you feel that, but you don't... I don't expect...” He stopped, unable to continue stringing words together when his heart was beating faster than ever, his ears and neck burning.

It seemed to take some effort, but Draco attempted to explain himself. “It's how you see it, I think. I... thought it... I thought you might need to hear it. I don't...” For a moment, Draco looked like he was walking around Muggle London with no money, no wand, and no idea where he was or how to make himself understood. “It's what you say. I just can't... I know you'd prefer it if I could, but I just can't. I'll... I can try harder.”

“I don’t expect that,” Harry reassured, then pressed his lips against Draco’s, showing what words were inadequate to express, no matter how pretty they sounded. And he disliked immensely that Draco seemed to think Harry wanted those words, when he didn’t. They were nice, but Draco showed him enough that he loved him. In his own broken way, Harry felt, Draco had made himself just as uncomfortable as Harry had been, giving to him something that, while appreciated, hadn’t been required, and never would be. The crippled explanation and declaration held just as much power as the first time Harry realised what Draco was really saying to him; part of what he loved about Draco was that he didn’t use the same words everyone else did. Experiencing Draco’s love was more than any phrase could ever accurately describe, anyway; and even if Harry, having had no physical ability beyond that Draco controlled, had taken to saying it more often, had no desire to force or make Draco think he had to say he loved Harry. With every breath that he took, every kiss, Harry knew exactly what he was to Draco, and he could only hope Draco knew, too.

Harry wore a smile of tempered silver that no single object could replicate. “Scorpius Orion Malfoy. Yo— Our son.”

The smile that graced Draco’s features at that was something to behold, one of those rare sights that made Harry smile in return. “Who will have siblings.”

Nodding, Harry watched as a frown pulled at Draco’s face slightly, his own expression deflating in confusion. 

“I'd probably better start revising obstetrics and gynaecology.”

Harry laughed, and Draco’s eyebrows rose in response.

“You don't seriously think I'd entertain the notion of entrusting our children's care to another Healer?” 

“No. And I wouldn't want you to.”

“We have to get this curse off you before she starts needing real supervision and treatment. And the Mark off me.” 

“You've... already done everything?”

“The preparations, yes. It will be a few days before she's ready, but then it will be a matter of choosing when we want our son to be born and acting accordingly.” 

“I didn't... expect it to be so soon. And... I don't care when he's born. Do you? I mean... does it matter?”

“Not on any grand scale, no. I suppose it had better be sooner rather than later. After we're married, of course, but... why, would you rather leave it a few years?” 

Taking a moment to think about it, Harry decided that he didn’t want to wait, not when if things had gone the way he’d thought they would with Ginny, he’d already have had children. “No. I'm... happy with whatever you want to do. And nine months...” he did the maths in his head, “…from now would be April.”

“I don't like April.” Draco considered for a moment. “Early July, I think. That should give us enough time to get your curse lifted, my Mark removed, both of us recovered, married, and have a reasonable honeymoon.” 

“Alright,” Harry said, experiencing an amalgam of emotions: happiness over what he had with Draco; apprehension over the curse and Mark removal; and relief that Luna had been content enough with what he did give that she didn’t require sex in the end. Draco’s casual handling of things was slightly surprising given his propensity not to discuss anything emotional, but Harry reckoned that was because he wasn’t actually discussing the emotions, just an event that would be emotional.

Draco regarded Harry for a moment, then said, “We should get married at the end of the year.” 

“New Year's Eve?” Harry asked, surprised. “This year?”

“Yes. Unless you have any preferences?” 

“No. I just... think it's funny that you'd pick the day I kissed you...”

An eyebrow rose. “Strictly, you kissed me on the first of January, not the thirty first of December. But I thought it would be a suitable way to end the year. And begin next year, obviously.” 

“Oh, well... you're right. But ... that sounds good.” Harry smiled, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “I'll get it right this time,” he promised.

“Of course you will. You've had plenty of practice.” 

“I think I might need a little more. Just to be sure,” Harry said, his tone full of mischief.

An absent smile quirked at Draco’s lips, then he leaned forward and kissed Harry in a way that seemed to reshape and redefine everything Harry knew about the way their mouths could fit together. He soaked up every moment of it as they took turns sharing their need to have that. Letting everything else slip away, he protested slightly when Draco’s mouth left his, both of their cocks already responding to the intensity. There was a moment where he wanted to demand why Draco had stopped, but the serious expression that replaced the hungry one forestalled any comment. Harry waited, patiently trying to work out what was going on in Draco’s head. “I'll take the curse off you this afternoon.” 

Freezing, Harry asked, “What?”

“Might as well get it out of the way.” 

Harry took a deep breath, waiting for the reflexive apprehension to subside. Logically, he was perfectly aware that Draco would do everything in his power to make this as easy for him as possible. As he exhaled, Harry looked at Draco, and said, “Alright. It's about time, I suppose. I only asked you to wait until after your birthday.” There was no other reason to wait, and Harry had to admit that he was looking forward to being able to express himself physically a little more than he’d done so far.

Draco smiled. “I thought you might like to fuck me for yours.” 

All of Harry’s breath caught in his chest, only a startled choking sound making it past his lips. 

Draco smirked.

Once Harry had regained his senses, he said, “Well, I suppose that means sex will be a bit more versatile.”

In a tone of affectionate exasperation, Draco retorted, “Creative fucking is not my principal concern, Potter.” 

“Mmm. Maybe not. But you have to admit, it has appeal.”

Resigned, Draco shook his head, sighing with what Harry recognised as affectionate exasperation, and listened appreciatively as Harry purposefully drew out his admission of what he wanted to do once he was physically capable of sharing more than a hand job that inevitably Draco had to control. For a long time, Draco seemed like he didn’t want to move, didn’t want Harry to stop running his hands along his flanks, and lead them both into orgasm; but it seemed reason won out, and despite his obvious desires, Draco looked at Harry with a serious expression. “I need to get hold of Weasley.” 

Nodding, Harry pulled Draco in for another kiss, and watched as Draco dressed, then allowed himself to be put into pyjamas after the rest of the morning routine, and finally settled in alone with his thoughts.

By the time afternoon came, Harry was anxious, but Mrs Prout, along with Hermione, Ron for a time, and even Narcissa had all spent time with him, keeping him distracted. When Draco returned to the bedroom, seemingly ready, Harry’s chest tightened slightly, but he refused to let it consume him to the point of saying something stupid. Mrs Prout stood and left the room as soon as Draco entered.

“Are you ready?” Draco asked, moving toward the bed.

“Yeah,” Harry said, sitting up. He picked at his fingers nervously; and when Draco lifted him, he held tight. Placing his cheek against Draco’s, Harry let that closeness ground him. It was a reminder of what he’d have fully, as long as nothing went wrong, once he was better, and he wanted that more than anything – to be able to touch Draco without physical limitation, to be able to move around again. More than he liked to admit, Harry had grown used to someone else taking care of him in a way he’d never had. “I’ll see you when I wake up.”

He kissed Draco’s cheek, but it wasn’t enough. Fingers trembling slightly, he took Draco’s face and turned him until they were looking at one another. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Draco’s, letting the slow movement of their mouths calm him.

Draco cleared his throat and said, “This one shouldn't be as bad. I've laid in a supply of the medication that was effective for pain management last time, and with your permission I'll keep you unconscious for the first couple of days.”

“Whatever you need to do,” Harry assured him, stroking the back of Draco’s neck, as much to soothe himself as Draco.

“I would anticipate a faster recovery, too.”

Nodding, Harry rested his head against Draco’s shoulder, grateful that he hadn’t napped at all during the day. He was too tired to argue, and it would keep him from voicing his apprehension. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt again, that it wouldn’t take months to recover, that he wouldn’t be worse. So many things. 

There was a perceptible shift in Draco’s bearing, and he remained silent as they began to move from the bedroom. When Harry looked up, he saw Bill and Mrs Prout sitting on the sofa in the anteroom; Draco placed him between them, then backed away to get a hypodermic from one of the tables. Mrs Prout took his hand, squeezing it slightly when he turned to offer her a smile of gratitude.

“You’ll be fine, dear,” she said.

“He’s one of the best Healers, Harry,” Bill said, placing a friendly hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry nodded and turned back to Draco, who was approaching with the Muggle medication. The injection only took a few moments, and he looked up as Draco – Healer Malfoy – stood before him, his wand pointed at Harry. Harry nodded again, squeezing Mrs Prout’s hand as Draco’s voice began intoning a spell. 

The moment Harry felt the magic hit him, his vision became a cloud of colour, then died to a soft grey. Pain, far worse than he’d ever felt, flashed through his body. Magic moved through him like threads of a tapestry. Everything moved slowly, as though time had stopped, and he was held suspended by a frame, or maybe it was Bill and Mrs Prout holding him, he didn’t know. Fire engulfed the threads holding him together, and he felt as though everything would melt from the inside out. 

A cooling wave, undulating behind all of the discomfort, hurt, began to spread through him, and then it began again, almost as though something inside him was being ripped out, only there was a constant connection, one that didn’t want to be severed.

It became too much. A strangled cry tore from Harry’s throat, and finally everything went peacefully black.

****

~*~*~*~

A distantly familiar feeling of moving limbs startled Harry. The sheet shifted, tickling his foot, and the movement, combined with the unexpected jerk of his leg, made Harry sit up quickly, his head spinning slightly as he heard, “How are you feeling?” followed quickly by the sound of the chair at the end of the bed shifting. Harry looked up through cloudy eyes and, once he’d realised he was safe, that he was alive, that the spell removal had seemed to work, he relaxed immediately, lying back against the bed.

Experimentally, at length, he wiggled his toes, trying to remember what it felt like to be able to control his lower limbs. “Alright.”

Then he bent both legs, keeping his feet flat against the bed for a moment before straightening them again, his surprise keeping him silent. When Draco approached, Harry looked up through blurred vision.

"Are you doing that deliberately?"

“Yes.” Squinting, Harry saw the look of satisfaction on Draco’s face. He was oddly calm, his heart rate returning to normal quickly.

“Feels odd. Probably because I haven't done it in so long.” He reached for his glasses and slid them onto his face.

“Mmm,” came the noncommittal response. “You’ll be pleased to hear that Weasley's scan confirms that the only residual magic on you is the protective charm. And since that's saved your life once that I know of, I think I'd be happier if it stayed in place.”

Unable to help it, Harry laughed, remembering something Kingsley had said about not getting himself hurt or killed.

Draco huffed. “I could probably reverse-engineer a counter-charm if you want it off.”

Shaking his head, Harry said, “No. It's not that. It's fine, really. As long as it's not warped or anything, I don't care.”

When he tried to sit up, Draco placed a warm hand in the centre of his chest, saying, “Don't rush, Potter. You've been unconscious for more than two days. Let yourself come round a bit, first.”

“Alright,” Harry said, reaching for Draco’s hand. “Two days. That's better than last time.”

“And you seem to be able to tolerate fabric better this time.” Draco regarded Harry for a moment, then changed his grip on Harry’s hand. “Squeeze, please.”

Harry complied, feeling a difference in his strength already.

“Can you do it harder?” Draco asked, and Harry attempted to squeeze his hand as hard as he possibly could.

Knowing he was dealing with his Healer, Harry was patient as Draco ran through a reasonable range of sensation and functionality tests, in which his performance appeared to be broadly satisfactory.

Harry looked around the room as he became more clear-headed, noting he only had one tube attached to his hand, for the Muggle medications, and strangely curious about his bowel and bladder functions while he’d been out, asked, “Um, Draco? How have I been using the bathroom?”

A pale eyebrow rose quizzically. “Well, you weren't exactly in a position to communicate you needs, and I wasn't going to cart you to the bathroom and back every ten minutes just in case.”

“Oh,” Harry said, a warm flush moving up his cheeks as he realised he’d apparently been left in bed.

“I probably could have obtained some incontinence equipment, but I knew you wouldn't be out for all that long, and Mrs Prout was quite happy to change the bedding. I’ve been here all the time; I cleaned you up straight away. It’s not like we left you lying in it.”

Deciding to change the subject, Harry inquired, “Did you get any proper sleep?”

“Potter, I keep telling you: I have slept in far worse places than the chair. And it was only two nights. Now, are you hungry, or would you rather have a bath first?”

“I think I could eat something,” Harry said, bending one leg and folding the other beneath it as he rested his hands on his stomach.

Draco’s attention shifted to Harry’s movement immediately. “Don't strain yourself. I'll send for Mrs Prout. Is there anything in particular you fancy?”

“I’m not,” Harry assured, a soft smile on his face. A calm, one he hadn’t known for a long time, seemed to be coursing through him. It was finally over. There didn’t appear to be any negative results yet, and it brought a sense of peace to him. “I don’t know. Something simple.”

“We'll start you with a soup then. And maybe some fresh bread.”

“Alright,” Harry said, trying to assess his own state. He was weak, and a bit sluggish, but he imagined that had more to do with the Muggle drugs Draco had given him than any ill-effects of the spell removal.

Draco left the room for a moment, then returned. It was clear that Draco hadn’t really slept well, and he tensed slightly. A strange sensation, as though someone was trying to pull his muscles from his leg began in his thigh, an unexpected tingling accompanying the jolting of his leg. Confusion at the strange sensation made him look up; Draco was next to him in less than a heartbeat, taking a seat on the bed, and straightening Harry’s right leg.

“Steady, steady. Just relax. Don't fight it.” Firm pressure and deft fingers began to knead the tension away.

Harry inhaled. “I'm not. That's not happened - well, it did before I went to St Mungo's. Sort of. Not quite the same, but it's been so long, I don't remember properly.”

Draco nodded, his shoulders setting, and Harry knew what he was about to hear wasn’t good. The only time Draco ever did that was when he was uncomfortable or when he knew he was about to say something that would hurt Harry in some way.

“This... isn't how I would have chosen to have this conversation with you.” He took a steadying breath, his hands still rubbing Harry’s quivering thigh. “There is a possibility that there may be some degree of permanent debility.”

The news, however saddening, didn’t hit him as hard as he had expected it to. Incongruity wracked him; he was supposed to be upset, angry… anything, but not calm. He supposed it was due mainly to the fact that he was alive, and even if he might not have the same sort of ability he had before everything had started, the important thing was that he would be able to work around it, and as long as Draco didn’t see him any differently, there was nothing else he needed. He’d accepted a long time ago that he might never be the same man. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Your body took a lot of damage. And your resiliency was probably reduced in any case, after...” Draco squared his shoulders again, “...after you died.” He paused. “It's impossible at this stage to gauge the degree of likely residual damage.”

Harry had a feeling Draco was taking that harder than he was. “It’s fine, Draco,” he said, smiling.

There was a bit of uncertainty behind the Healer’s mask.

“You did what you could,” Harry reassured, placing his hand atop Draco’s. “And anyway, I came to terms with the fact I wouldn’t be the same a while ago. I’m alive; that’s what’s important.”

Draco only appeared slightly appeased, but Harry didn’t know what else to say. 

“I'll be able to assess you better once you're rested. I need to establish your base condition.”

Harry nodded.

“I've tried a couple of minor charms on you without discernible adverse effects. I'll try some with you conscious when you've eaten, bathed and had some natural sleep.”

Smiling, Harry asked, “Alright. You'll stay, won't you? Or would you prefer not to? I mean, in the bed with me. Not the chair.”

“If you'll be comfortable, yes.”

“I feel fine. It's all a bit surreal, I suppose. But I'm fine.”

Draco nodded. “Are you in any discomfort?”

“No, not now. Leg was a bit odd, but it's alright.” Draco’s hand was still against his thigh.

Draco nodded again. “You'll probably experience a certain amount of myalgia, fasciculations and paraesthesia.”

“What’s all that mean?” Harry asked.

Draco quirked a smile. “You'd probably know it as muscle pain, involuntary muscle twitching, and pins and needles.”

“Oh, okay,” Harry said, smiling. He’d only felt that when his leg had cramped up, the spasm uncomfortable and surprising, but he refused to let that bother him.

In an expression that probably could have rivalled Luna, Harry fixed his gaze on Draco, serene and happy. He was grateful for how things had turned out, regardless of any permanent disability he might have. Harry knew he’d have to deal with that eventually, but in that moment, it didn’t matter – nothing but that moment, the warmth of Draco’s hand against his thigh, his ability to move his toes, his ankles, and legs, mattered. It was incredible. For nearly a year, he’d been unable to feel his lower body as more than dead weight and lifeless muscles that refused to co-operate, and now he had all of that function back, even if it would be limited in some ways.

It was odd, Harry thought, that Draco seemed slightly uncomfortable, but he didn’t question it. Draco moved the sheet back over his naked lower body, a knock at the door coming shortly after. Mrs Prout walked in, with soup and bread and some water. She wore a warm smile.

“Hello, Eleanor.”

“Oh, it’s good to see you awake, Harry,” she said, placing the tray of food on the bedside table. 

He thanked her as she left, and sat up carefully, so as not to make himself too dizzy again. He ate slowly, not because of any weakness, but enjoying the flavour and feeling no need to rush. “What’s wrong?” Harry asked between spoonfuls.

Draco shook his head, then asked, “Does that taste alright?”

Harry nodded.

“Any nausea?”

“No. Should I have?”

Draco smiled faintly. “Not really, but you haven't eaten for two days so your stomach may be a bit delicate.”

“I’ll eat slowly.”

Knowing that Draco was less interactive when he was focussed as a Healer, Harry did as he said, and ate his meal slowly, smiling intermittently. Draco gave him approving looks as he ate, and once he got through all of the soup, and half the bread, and said, “I’m full.”

An approving nod came from Draco, and he stood to clear the tray. “Mrs Prout will be pleased.”

Which Harry now knew meant Draco was, but he wasn’t going to say it. 

While Draco was gone, Harry leaned back and stretched, really stretched, for the first time on his own. Like a cat, his back arched from the bed, and his legs tensed out in front of him, the movement refreshing and relaxing.

As Draco re-entered the room, he smiled, a bit of his usual self breaking through the mask, and Harry relaxed, attempting not to overtax himself.

“I’ll run your bath.”

“Mmm. Sounds good,” Harry said, closing his eyes.

He listened as the water filled the tub, his breathing even. He heard Draco’s feet against the carpet as he moved to collect him, and opened his eyes in surprise when he felt skin, rather than Draco’s robes. He hadn’t expected that, even though he knew it was logical. There was a brief, gentle smile on Draco’s face, as removed the Muggle needle from Harry’s hand, placed a plaster over it, and then lifted Harry from the bed, and carried him. Harry placed a kiss on Draco’s neck, and closed his eyes again. 

The water was warmer than usual as he felt it folding around him.

“Is the temperature comfortable?”

“It’s a bit warm, actually,” Harry replied, confused. Draco fiddled with the cold tap some, spreading the water out.

“Better?”

“Mmm,” Harry hummed affirmatively.

Draco nodded and reached for the flannel and soap. The first touch of the cloth to Harry’s skin tickled, and he assumed it was just his body adjusting to being normal again. At least, that’s what he hoped. Laughter shook him as Draco washed him with even more obsessive care than usual. It was still nice, though. He rested his head against the edge of the tub, and sighed contentedly.

“I’ll miss this,” he said, turning to look at Draco. “It was weird when you first had to, but I got used to it. And like it.”

A smile morphed the hard angles of the Healer mask. “I’ll bathe you whenever you want me to, Potter.”

Appreciative, Harry reached out, running his fingertips over Draco’s face tentatively, unsure if it was welcome. When Draco turned into the touch, his breath hitched slightly, the jolt of the intimacy making his heart race a bit. He leaned forward, backing away again as he doubted himself and whether Draco would accept a kiss or would rather wait. But he was saved from wondering. Draco followed him, meeting Harry’s lips halfway, a soft hiss of, “Yes,” between their mouths as he pressed against Draco’s. He started slow, and begged for more with the spin of his tongue against Draco’s, glad that he could feel that again, that Draco still wanted him. As the rush of being able to touch and taste Draco became a slow, even trickle, Harry slowed down the pace, and finally broke away, needing to voice his thoughts.

“I know it was your—” he grimaced, still looking at Draco, their lips barely apart, “—duty, and thank you doesn't seem like enough, but: thank you. You've given me everything,” he said softly.

Draco appeared bewildered, and kissed Harry lightly. He looked like he couldn’t make up his mind on whether he wanted to say something or bolt completely, so Harry ran a wet hand through his hair, letting the texture of it soothe him. Slowly, he let his lips brush against Draco’s again, and slid his cheek against Draco’s as he placed a kiss against that pale neck. He didn’t want Draco to leave; and he knew he should have been a bit more cautious with his words, but he was grateful for everything Draco had done, had given him. He was happy, truly happy, and whether or not he deserved it, he was thankful for it.

Irrespective of the soap on Harry’s chest, Draco folded his arms around Harry, and all Harry could do was hold him in return, watching as droplet of water moved down his long spine and were soaked up by the strange underthings Draco was wearing.

Forcing the words around the lump in his throat, Harry managed to say, “…more than you know,” as he freely ran his fingertips over the smooth skin, memorising each ridge and plane.

Draco released his hold and brought his hands to Harry’s face, kissing him again. After he’d pulled away, Draco let his touch linger, then moved to Harry’s shoulders, his fingers barely touching Harry’s skin. It was almost as though he had to make himself believe Harry was really there; and almost needing to reassure Draco, he said, with a smile, “’M not going anywhere. Promise.”

Pulling himself together, Draco said, “I need to wash your hair.”

Knowing the abrupt change in subject was just how Draco coped, Harry nodded, saying, “Alright.” As Draco washed his hair, Harry moaned softly, feeling the relief in Draco’s touch.

Once he was bathed, and Draco had selected a film – rather put off that Casablanca was a love story, and no longer wearing those strange underthings – Harry rested his head against Draco’s shoulder, attempting to watch the film. Sleep came quickly, though, and Harry didn’t fight it. He would have all the time he needed to ask questions, touch Draco, attempt to walk. He had everything he needed right then.

To Be Continued…


	34. Chapter 34

The Cottage: 

**Chapter 34: Becoming Independent Again**

Groaning, Harry rolled over. His shoulder hit resistance, his eyes snapping open from moving independently. More than a little surprised, Harry sat up quickly, his head feeling as though it had taken a dive into a pool. 

"How are you feeling?" Draco asked, his voice still rough from sleep.

"F-fine. Was just surprised to move," Harry replied, laughter of relief breaking free, following his words. The spell removal hadn't been a dream, and he really was sitting up on his own, his toes moving against the bedding, with Draco beside him.

"Can you swim?"

The question was so unrelated to the situation that Harry just looked at him in confusion as he reached for his glasses and bottle out of habit. Placing the bottle between his thighs, Harry slid his glasses onto his face. "Yes," he replied, adjusting appropriately, Draco lending his assistance, as Harry relieved himself.

It surprised Harry slightly, though he couldn't say why, that Draco was helping with the bottle. He hadn't done since Harry had been unable to move his arms after Ginny's spell had been removed. 

"I shall take you to the pool today, then."

"Alright," Harry said, replacing the bottle on the bedside table. He stretched at length, the bedding shifting as he arched and twisted. Draco's eyes were on him as he moved, and he found himself flushing from the attention.

After a few diagnostic spells that yielded apparently satisfactory results, and no effects that Harry could feel, apart from the ones Draco had told him to expect, Harry lay on his back with Draco massaging some sort of potion into his legs first, then the rest of his body. It tingled as it moved over his skin, and he sighed contentedly, little moans of pleasure creeping out as time passed. 

"What is that stuff?" Harry asked.

"It's to help restore muscle tone and assist redevelopment of mass you've lost."

"Oh. How much weight have I lost?"

"Not enough to worry about: I was actually referring to muscle mass. You're generally within acceptable parameters. You could gain a stone or so; I'd say you need about half a stone, but clearly at that sort of level it's not a question of desperation."

Harry laughed. "Alright."

"Unless your appetite increases, Mrs Prout will continue fortifying your diet. I will stop the supplements, though," Draco said, continuing his assiduous attentions.

"I'll try. Never really got used to... well— I'll work on it."

"She can continue to fortify your diet. It's a little harder, but I daresay she relishes the challenge."

Smiling, Harry noticed a resigned half-frown pulling at Draco's lips. "What?"

"What?"

"What are you thinking about? Why did you frown?"

Draco shook his head. "It's unimportant. Mrs Prout doesn't just add things to _your_ food, that's all. My mother's practically living on celery to compensate for the calorie intake when she eats with us."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realise everyone was eating the same thing I was... I haven't noticed you gaining any weight, though. You still look quite fit to me."

Draco began wiping his hands off on a towel as he said, "I'm watching what I eat otherwise and taking plenty of exercise. And I've always had a fast metabolism."

A smile crossed Harry's face as he thought about the sort of exercise Draco had had lately. 

"I've also been carrying you around quite a lot, Potter, and walking around the Manor rather than just Apparating everywhere," Draco said with dry amusement.

Harry flushed. "I'll try to eat more." He paused for a moment, considering. "So the magic is helping me heal faster, then. Would it be alright to try to stand up?"

"I don't see why not. Let me get the rest of this off my hands." Draco waved his wand, then stepped back from the bed, holding his hands out to Harry.

Not knowing what to expect, Harry sat up and took Draco's hands. He moved slowly, setting his feet on the floor, feeling the carpet as he flexed his toes. As he stood, there was a slight burning in his quadriceps, a feeling like he hadn't exercised in ages – which he hadn't. Standing erect, Harry blinked, the stunning anti-climactic feel of it making him wonder what he really thought would happen. He felt steady, and laughed at himself at the silly notion something _should_ have felt different. "I really don't know what I expected," he said to himself.

Draco smiled. "Do you want to try walking a few steps?" 

"Alright."

Holding Draco's hands, Harry took a few steps, not daring to see how quickly he could move: the last thing he wanted was to worry Draco. With each step, his confidence grew, and he took pleasure in the look of approval on Draco's face. As he moved, the only thing he really noticed that was off was a slight limp in his right leg, the same one that had spasmed the night before.

"Very good. You're steadier than I might have expected. Let's sit you down, now; you need to take it slowly for now."

"Alright." Harry stopped for a moment to think. "Any other side-effects? Apart from the limp? I mean, will I still get tired like I used to? Or was that from the magic?" 

Draco frowned. "The... functional deficit to your right leg may improve over time. You have only just started to mobilise, after all. And I really can't advise you with any certainty on other after-effects. Nobody else has ever had the same condition. It's possible, as I said, that there will be long-term consequences. But it's not a given, and I really can't guess at what they will be with any certainty." 

Harry nodded. "Before I sit, though…" he said, pulling Draco to him. A flash of uncertainty made him hesitate. "Is this alright?"

Draco smiled. "Of course it is. As long as you're not in any discomfort." 

"No," Harry said, drawing Draco's mouth to his. He stopped before their lips touched. "I've been wanting to do this for what seems like ages." Then he pulled their mouths together, and their lips crashed like an angry tide. Harry's tongue swept across Draco's palate, his teeth and tongue. Still naked, and half-hard from the massage, he pressed closer against Draco, sliding his hands down the contour of Draco's body. It was different to touch him standing; Harry was able to feel the long line of Draco's torso, his hips, which had no curves like a woman. All of Draco was different from what he was used to touching before he'd discovered how attracted to the man, his body and his mind, he really was. And he didn't question the how or why, just relished that he'd been given this. In the pulse of arousal, Harry found himself unsatisfied by the light touch of their bodies, the delicate way Draco held onto him. He wanted their hips tighter together, wanted _more_ , and a fantasy he'd been holding onto for months made him break away from the kiss. Biting Draco's ear, he said, "I'm going to get on my knees and suck your cock."

Draco shivered appreciatively. "I'd like that very much, but I don't think your thighs will take it quite yet."

A whine tickled Harry's throat, his desire to run before he could walk making him think impulsively. He sighed. "You're right..." he said, moving his hands along Draco's arse, then between their bodies. "I was... getting a bit carried away."

Draco smiled. "It won't be long, Potter. Then I'll have you on your knees as often as you want me to. I could have you on your knees - after a fashion - right now, come to that." 

"Oh?" Harry asked, his hand tight around Draco's cock.

"Mmm. You remember that night in my old room? In front of the mirror?"

Harry moaned as his mind conjured the memory of that night. "I'm not likely to forget." 

Draco smiled wickedly and led Harry back to the bed.

**~*~*~*~**

After breakfast and a spectacular orgasm, Harry was sitting on the sofa in the bedroom, watching television. Draco had got him a walking stick, and he'd been attempting to get used to it, taking small steps at a time, trying not to wear himself out. He could feel the strain in his muscles after so long not using them, even despite the potions and altered physiotherapy; but he could walk. That was the important thing. Narcissa had been delighted to see him moving slowly to the dining table, and the same calmness that had gripped him the previous evening was still coursing though him. 

Excitement also seemed to hang just below the surface, though, and wanting to see something other than that room and the rest of the suite, Harry paused the DVD they were watching and asked, "Will you show me around? I mean, is it safe? I didn't feel anything when you used magic on me."

Draco smiled. "It should be. You'd better be in the chair, but I'll show you whatever you want to see. Where would you like to start?"

Harry shrugged. "Anywhere but this room," he said, laughing. "I like it, but I think I've seen enough of it to last for some time. You said there's a maze, and lake. I don't know what's _inside_."

"Well, there are the libraries. A couple of galleries. Numerous bedrooms. Sitting rooms. The ballroom. The great hall. The rest of the formal apartments." Draco shrugged. "It's a house."

"You saw where I grew up, right?"

Draco's lips thinned, and a creaking, 'hmph' noise followed, though Harry didn't know why. 

"I just mean that's what I'm used to. This is… much larger." Draco's silence unnerved Harry slightly, and he turned to look outside at the weather. It was sunny and probably warm, so he suggested, "Let's go outside."

"Alright. Rose garden, herb garden, kitchen garden, park, orchard, water garden, knot garden, woods, succession houses, formal garden, maze, or lakes?"

Harry's eyes widened for a moment, before he composed himself. "Water garden, I think."

Draco nodded. "You'll need a blanket. That's on the opposite side of the house. It's quicker to cut across the croquet lawn than to go through the building, though."

"Alright," Harry said, standing with his stick. Draco was at his side before he'd even stood properly, and helped him into his chair. Once he was settled, Draco placed the blanket over Harry's lap and they headed out.

Even if it was gauche, Harry stared with wide eyes at his surroundings, the place he was calling home. There were woods, an archery range, and the impressive exterior, among the things that Draco pointed out in a desultory fashion. Harry felt like a kid, his eyes darting around wildly at everything. 

"There are unicorns in the wood, you know," Draco said, apparently at random.

"Really? This place is incredible." Harry wasn't sure if he belonged there or not. It screamed money, power, influence. 

Draco quirked a smile. "It's home."

"It is," Harry agreed. "Will take some getting used to."

Draco regarded him for a moment. "I'd be reluctant to demolish wings, but there's always the Dower House."

"What do you mean? Why would you do that? Just because I say it'll take getting used to doesn't mean I don't like it." Harry laughed. 

"I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable," Draco said, as if that explained everything.

Harry flickered a smile, appreciative of Draco's commitment to his comfort; he had a feeling that it would always take some getting used to. Harry knew Draco would rearrange the world to make him happy, but he didn’t need that. What Draco had already done for him was more than enough. "It's like the stately homes we saw on school trips. Sort of place Henry the Eighth took his wives and Elizabeth slept and stuff. Never thought I'd live somewhere like that."

"You don't have to. There are other properties," Draco said.

"It's fine, Draco. This is your home."

"It doesn't have to be. Potter, I can live elsewhere. If you'd rather." 

Harry appreciated that Draco was willing to uproot everything for him, but Draco had already done so much, he couldn't ask for anything else. And he would eventually get used to the sheer size and grandeur of his surroundings.

"I appreciate your concern, but I feel confident that I'll get used to it." Harry grinned.

Draco raised an eyebrow at him, then changed the subject. "That's my mother's favourite sitting room." He nodded to a window.

Harry didn't see much apart from the sun glittering off the windows. On the roof, though, there was a flag that caught his attention. 

"What's the flag?" he asked.

Draco coloured slightly, then coughed. "The house-elves are pleased you're better. That flag only flies when the house is celebrating. That's why the doors are garlanded, too."

Harry's face flushed deeper than Draco’s. "Are we celebrating?"

"Of course we are. The house-elves certainly are. I've never seen so many of them drunk." Draco nodded to another window, effectively steering the conversation away from uncomfortable topics. "That's my old room."

Harry smiled, his face still flushed. It would take some getting used to being so important that even house-elves which had never laid eyes on him were celebrating his recovery, but he felt like – hoped – he would. They arrived at the water garden, and Harry sat, looking at the water, listening to the faint sounds that continued to add to the calm he felt. Draco sat on a bench, and Harry asked for his help to sit beside him, and they talked. After Draco had given Harry a detailed history of the garden and the ancestor – whose name Harry forgot almost instantly – who had decided on the addition to the grounds, Harry asked questions about what had happened following the spell removal. 

While he'd been kept asleep after the curse had been removed, reporters – and Harry suspected Draco of having engineered the entire incident – had broken into the grounds again, the new Aurors proving largely ineffective at rounding up the overzealous idiots. Harry laughed and continued to listen with a smile on his face as Draco told him about the complaints against the new Aurors and how he'd hired Dawlish as a sort of steward for the Manor. His wife had moved in with him and was well on the way to becoming Mrs Prout's bosom companion, to Draco's evident gratification. 

For the next week, Harry took it slowly, determined not to give Draco any reason to fret or worry. Each day found him walking further and further without difficulty, and he made judicious use of his stick while ambling around the Manor. He'd smiled brilliantly when he'd seen Draco's desk and the purple orchid sitting on it; the one from Draco's birthday sat on the bedside table on Draco's side of the bed.

Knowing it would probably be best to handle the things from Hightrees as soon as possible, Harry called Kreacher to lead him to the east wing and the room where everything from his previous life had been stored. When he walked in, he took a deep breath and sat down on the nearest chair, staring at the boxes, furniture, and miscellaneous items from his life with Ginny.

Looking at the pieces of a former existence, Harry bit back a sigh and stood, making his way toward a stack of boxes. Harry rested a hand against the first one, a brief tremor moving through it as he fought the hesitation. The furniture, he decided, would be sent to the Burrow; Harry had no need of sofas, chairs, or tables – and the beds, he would rather not have those about, either – not when the Manor was already furnished, without major alteration, for generations. In an odd way, Harry found he liked that; there would be family history for their children, even if it only came from one of their parents. 

There was no reason, Harry thought, that their children should suffer the same feeling of not having any roots that he had always felt.

Shaking his head as though it would rattle his thoughts loose, Harry finally opened the box in front of him. Inside, there were photos, their edges curled like parchment after Harry had been pressing against it too hard with the tip of his quill. The thought had occurred to Harry to ask Draco to help him with this task, only after he'd thought about it, he'd shoved the compulsion aside, knowing that the things that left that room in his hands would be few, proof of how pathetic his life really had been. The first photo was of Harry and Ron each holding a glass of Firewhisky at a dinner Ginny had insisted they have. Neville was in the background, his gaze centred on Ginny, and she was smiling back with an expression that had once been directed at Harry. His hand tightened into a fist around the photo, and he threw it to the floor.

He told Kreacher that any photos with Ginny should be removed from the box, and continued through the stacks. The boxes only held a few things he really wanted to keep: the watch the Weasleys had given him, the photos of Teddy from over the years, and his friends, the brooms he'd collected, and a few of his old clothes. His Hogwarts trunk was underneath a stack of boxes, and he opened it, staring at his school books and a few other things he hadn't looked at in years. On top, the Sword of Gryffindor lay, wrapped in heavy cloth. He picked it up and examined it for a moment, then looked at Kreacher. In a way it had never done before, seeing the outline of the sword through the cloth made him inexplicably angry, and knowing that it wasn't something he'd want on display, or that Draco would be fond of, he asked Kreacher to get rid of it.

Once he'd sorted everything that he wanted to keep, tossing his copy of the Undesirable Number One poster he'd nicked from the Ministry years ago into the rubbish pile, he packed the scant few items he wanted to keep and sent them back to the bedroom with Kreacher. Since Draco spent most of his time in his library – or one of the libraries; Harry wasn't sure how many there were – he was able to return to the room and put the things he wanted to keep away before Draco returned. If Draco noticed Harry's foul mood, he didn't say anything about it.

By the time dinner came, his mood had improved, relief flooding him when Narcissa informed him that everything had been sent to the Burrow. He nodded, thankful it was over. The last remnants of his life with Ginny were gone, and now all he had were the memories of her betrayal. Those, he believed, would fade with time.

That evening, Harry joined Mrs Prout for tea, learning more about her children since they would be arriving soon, and about her husband and her family. Another old pure-blood family like the Blacks and Malfoys, to his surprise. Draco wandered in while they were talking, seeming to need something from their bedroom. As he left, he nodded amiably to Mrs Prout, and placed a kiss on Harry's head. Startled, Harry took a moment to clear his throat; Draco hadn't gone out of his way to show him any sort of affection with somebody else in the room before, and it took Harry a moment to try to wrap his head around the idea. He hadn't forgotten what Draco had said about Mrs Prout, but it had still surprised him. Mrs Prout just looked at him with a keen eye and a smile on her face before continuing with stories about her children.

One morning, while Harry was reaching for his glasses, after he'd woken up, Draco tutted and took them from his hand. That long, finger-like wand pointed at Harry, and Draco began mouthing a spell, his concentration absolute. Harry blinked rapidly as he felt a strange tightening and twisting in his eyes. Clarity came slowly, like a telescope being brought into focus, the odd sensation lessening as his vision sharpened past the point he'd had with his glasses. 

When Harry could see Draco clearer than he'd ever been able to, Draco lowered his wand and put both Harry's glasses and his wand on the bedside table. They had talked about Draco being able to fix his vision, but Harry hadn't expected him to do it so soon or so unceremoniously. Wide-eyed, he looked around, relishing the ability to see without his glasses. He hadn't ever given it any active thought until Draco had mentioned it; looking at everything with new clarity, though, he was glad he'd agreed to it. And then Draco leaned in and kissed him, and Harry wrapped his fingers in his hair, falling. Draco didn't seem to want to let things go that far, though. He broke the kiss and stood from the bed, walking toward the chest of drawers, opening his box, depositing Harry's glasses in it. 

"Why are you keeping them?" Harry asked.

Looking at Harry, Draco replied, "You don't need them any more," his attention returning to the box as he closed the lid. And even though he didn't quite understand why his old glasses would be important to Draco, he accepted it, knowing he'd never get a proper explanation unless he pressed; and he'd done enough of that already, one way and another. There were other issues, Harry knew, that wouldn't be that simple, but he'd deal with them as they came. 

After fixing Harry’s vision, Draco touched Harry’s face more, the brief, appreciative caresses always welcome. At tea with Narcissa, Draco would allow his leg or foot to touch Harry’s as they sat next to one another, and he slowly began to learn what was acceptable in certain company. He knew Draco wouldn’t do any of those things with Hermione or Ron around, and possibly not even Luna, but it was nice to know that Draco's rigid adherence to the rules of proper behaviour extended more to public than their home.

Early during that first week, Luna decided to bring her detailed notes and books on the magic involved in the Mark removal, and having found himself comfortable with not even thinking about magic, he didn't look at them once. He didn't even ask for his wand.

**~*~*~*~**

The water garden that Draco had taken Harry to had become one of his favourite places to find serenity. The never-ending sound of water over rock was peaceful; just what Harry needed as he sat, knowing that he would have to face magic eventually. It was inevitable that Draco would remind him; Luna had already brought the books on the Mark removal, and Harry hadn't touched his wand in a week, content to allow those around him to use magic when it had been needed. For those few moments, though, Harry just wanted to enjoy the warmth of sunlight and calm that being in that garden gave to him.

"Potter." 

Harry looked up from the waterfall, a smile brightening his face as he watched Draco approach. 

A perfunctory smile curved Draco's lips, and Harry's smile faded.

"Do you know what the date is?" 

Furrowing his brow in confusion, Harry replied, "No."

Draco nodded. "Do you recall approximately how long it is since my birthday?"

"Fortnight... maybe." Harry shook his head, not understanding what Draco was asking. 

"And can you work out how long that leaves before your birthday?" 

"Yes," Harry mumbled. Knowing why Draco was asking those questions didn't alleviate the tension that had made Harry stiffen in his seat. His eyes flickered across the croquet lawn for a moment, then settled on Draco again; and he watched, a slow dread moving through him, as Draco pushed his robe sleeve back, exposing his Mark.

"I recall a conversation about this." 

Realising what Draco was saying, Harry sighed and said, "You want it off before my birthday."

Draco nodded in confirmation. "It's polluted you for long enough." 

"Me?" Much as Harry wanted to understand Draco's statement, he didn't. "I'd have thought it was... polluting you," Harry said quietly, his wavering confidence like the family flag rippling in the wind. _What if I can't do it?_

"Both of us, then," Draco conceded, letting his sleeve drop back down. "I don't want to wear it, and I don't want you to start another year of your life having to look at it." 

While Harry appreciated Draco's sentiment, he was finding the notion of taking up his wand difficult. He'd changed so much since the outset of his illness, that he hardly recognised himself any more. Physically he was practically the same, some of the tone in his stomach a little less than it used to be; but mentally, Harry could barely remember many of the things he had liked and enjoyed. Over the past week, he'd thought about the things that made him Harry Potter and found that many of them had applied to who Harry Potter had been when he'd been engaged to and living with Ginny Weasley – not who he really was. Foods that he hadn't tasted since he'd thrown Ginny out no longer appealed to him; and with that revelation, a sense of needing to find out who he was without the complication of magic had overtaken him. Now Draco stood before him, his aristocratic countenance radiating a level of expectation that Harry hadn't previously seen outside their bedroom.

He breathed out heavily, an attempt to steady his nerves. "Luna's brought the books and her notes." Harry looked down, then added, "You have my wand."

Movement caught his attention, and he looked up as Draco produced Harry's wand from his sleeve. He should have, he knew, expected that from Draco; he was a man who never did anything without layers of plans and contingency strategies to go about getting what he wanted. Harry mumbled something unintelligible, quashing the irritation that started to overwhelm his appreciation for Draco's foresight. "What do you want me to do?"

"I had thought you might ask for it, once it became clear that magic is no longer harmful to you." 

Harry shook his head.

"Clearly. You're a wizard, Potter. Magic is part of who you are. If you don't use it, it will find outlets, and the sort of outlets that wild magic will find in a man of your age and ability do not tend to be pretty." 

"It's... I haven't thought about magic for a while."

Taking a seat next to him, Draco asked, "Does it bother you?" 

"Does what bother me? Magic? Or That I've spent almost more of my life as a Muggle than a wizard? Or...? I don't know what you're asking."

"The notion of using magic again."

Quietly, Harry replied, "Yes." He shifted, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. He was still struggling with admitting any sort of actual or perceived weakness, and the feeling of uncertainty that rose within him was not something he was ready to share just yet. It had nothing to do with trust, or lack thereof; it was that constant shifting in his sense of self, like weather, that cast doubt and fear over him as though clouds were obscuring sunlight.

"I haven't used it... in nearly a year."

"In what way does it bother you?" 

"Not being able to do it, I suppose. I..." Harry's face coloured, "...got used to everyone doing things for me, and adjusting is harder than I thought it would be. I liked being... taken care of – more than I probably should have. Having that... was different. You don't have any expectations, and it's... a lot less about some ability I'm supposed to have, and about _me_ , as a person. Not what I can or can't do with a wand."

Draco appeared meditative for a moment; Harry could almost see as Draco chose his words. "What you can do with a wand doesn't define you; it's merely a facet of who you are. One of the many things that makes you Harry James Potter, and probably not even one of the most significant of them. But it _is_ part of who you are, and attempting to ignore or deny it would be as nonsensical as attempting to ignore or deny your sense of right and wrong." Draco paused. "Those around you value you for all that you are, not merely a small part of it. And if they do not, then they don't value you as they should." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "And I suspect that Mrs Prout would strongly deprecate any attempt to compel her to stop looking after you. As my mother would. And as I would. But you can be looked after without being treated like an invalid." 

Harry wanted to argue, but he knew Draco was right. If anything, all the time he'd spent around Draco had tempered some of his impulsivity, and also forced him to look at things from another perspective before clamping down on a conclusion like a Hippogriff's claw without having any idea what the other side of the problem looked like. He smiled faintly. "It's just... strange. That's all. I'm not the same, I know that. In many ways." Harry paused. "What if it doesn't work?" Shaking his head, he said, "That's stupid. It would..." And finally, he held out his hand for his wand, taking a deep breath. "What should I do?"

"Not behave as if you think the wand is going to bite you, for a start. It isn't. You've had this wand since you were eleven years old. It's on your side." Harry couldn't help laughing, but it was full of anxiety. "It's an old friend, not some half-tamed rodent." 

Harry supposed that Draco's having not given him the wand yet was another way he was showing Harry that he was afraid of it, which he was. Not because he thought the wood would bite him, as Draco had said, but because he was afraid it wouldn't work, that he might have lost the ability to channel his magic. Casting a glance at Draco, Harry placed his hand on Draco's bicep and ran his hand the length of Draco's arm, until his fingers brushed against Draco's and the holly-wood wand. "You're right."

Offering a lopsided smile, Draco said, "I quite often am. I wish more people realised this."

Harry chuckled in amusement, his fingers raking against Draco's palm as he took his wand in hand.

"Start with something basic. Levitation, _Lumos_. First year stuff," Draco instructed.

With a determined nod, since he hadn't lost that, he took a breath and intoned, " _Lumos._ " Immediately, the tip of Harry's wand illuminated like a camera flash, and died. His hand stung from the bite of the electricity-like current that sparked in his palm, and he shook his hand, trying to get that feeling off his skin.

Draco smiled. "That's actually a lot better than it could have been. You've been without magic for months; wholly removed from it. It's only natural that it would be more difficult at first." 

Harry snorted and pointed his wand at a small black rock, no larger than a Galleon, on the edge of the pond. “ _Wingardium Leviosa._ " The rock shifted back and forth, but it never rose from the ground.

"You had to start with the obsidian, didn't you? Flitwick had us levitating feathers for a _reason_." 

"It was small," Harry pointed out. His face screwed up, a thought occurring to him. "There's... one."

"One what?" 

Harry shook his head, focussing on a happy memory, one that would summon his Patronus. There was no regret as he closed his eyes, events flipping like photographs through his mind. They all became a blur of emotions, but it seemed to be enough, the knowledge that he was loved and loved someone at the forefront of his thoughts as he opened his eyes and incanted, " _Expecto Patronum!_ " A silvery mist shot forth from his wand, snagged by the light breeze, and disappeared. Harry's brow furrowed in confusion and irritation. "I've... always been able to do that one."

"That's hardly 'first year stuff', Potter." 

"No, but... I could do that with a dozen Dementors..."

Draco bit his lip, visibly biting back a withering rejoinder. "When you were using magic on a daily basis. Not when you'd been deprived of it for months on end. Potter, think about it logically for a moment, please.”

Sighing, Harry admitted, "I-I know."

"You've been unable to walk for months. Did you get out of bed and expect to be able to run from here to Somerset?"

"No."

"Then why pick up a wand for the first time in months and expect to be able to perform a piece of magic like that?"

"I don't know." Harry took another breath, trying to keep a firm grip on his determination. " _Accio Draco's wand._ " He looked at Draco expectantly. "Anything?"

"Summoning charms were _fourth_ year." 

"I can't remember what was first year."

Draco shook his head. "Don't just start performing every charm you've ever heard of, please. Alright. I'll make a list for you. Start with _Lumos_ and levitation charms. I'll find you some matches so you can try some basic transfigurations. You have to take it slowly at first, just as you did with your mobility." 

Harry nodded and attempted casting _Lumos_ again, the same surge of power stinging his palm. Nothing more than a quick flash of light came from the tip of his wand; and, grinding his teeth, Harry lowered his wand.

"Don't over-face yourself. If you over-think it, you're more likely to have problems." Draco smiled reassuringly. "You've been disconnected from magic for months. It's not like turning the TV on and off." 

"I'll keep trying. I mean, how many times a day... or what?" Harry laughed. "I feel like I'm in the first year again. Which isn't saying much." He laughed. "I wasn't a very good student."

Draco smiled sympathetically. "There's a degree to which you are. Potter, it took me weeks to get back to anything approaching normal after I got my wand back."

Having never willingly talked about his time in Azkaban, Harry was stunned, his eyes moving over Draco's shuttered expression. "I tried... to get you out sooner. That's why I brought your wand to you."

Draco shrugged. "The point was that it takes time. Your ability to channel magic is like your ability to do anything else: if you're wholly cut off from it, it will take time to recover." 

Nodding, Harry asked, "How often should I try?"

"A couple of times a day; no more. So not again today for several hours at least. Don't allow yourself to dwell on it; that'll only make it harder."

"Alright." Standing and putting his wand away, Harry then held out his arm and asked, "Care for a walk?" 

Draco smiled. "By all means."

Arms intertwined, they strode away from the water garden and across the lawn at a leisurely pace. Ever since Harry had realised he would probably always suffer a fraction of weakness, he had taken to bringing the plain walking stick with him everywhere. Whether his legs were actually bothering him or not, Harry didn't want Draco to fuss or worry, and had made up his mind that he wouldn't push his limits. He'd been doing well enough so far: no incidents apart from his legs cramping and having spasms when he was knackered or he had become distressed. 

"What do you want to show me today?" Harry asked as they traversed the grounds. He liked that they could lead and follow one another, that Draco had no problem with Harry directing them, or, if Harry was struggling to make a decision, Draco taking charge. It balanced quite nicely, he thought. 

"What would you like to see?" 

"Where do you like to go?"

Draco shrugged.

Grinning, Harry clarified, "Apart from the library."

"I like the park. The maze. The knot garden. The rose garden. The spinney." 

"That's a lot of gardens." Harry smiled. "Is your maze anything like the one from the Triwizard Tournament?"

Draco appeared amused. "Not really. It's much more dangerous." 

Harry laughed. "Maybe not there, then. At least, not until I can use my magic again." Deciding that he'd had enough of choosing for that moment, Harry switched the position of their arms, giving Draco the lead. "I'll go wherever you take me."

A predatory smile cut Draco's face as he drew his wand, Apparating them away from the Manor.

Surprised, Harry looked at his new surroundings. There was a tiny cottage before him, built of grey stone, the scent of water filling his nostrils. Turning, he looked at the verdant hills and dark water that stretched before him. Curious and wide-eyed, Harry asked, "Where are we?"

"In the Lake District." 

Harry's eyebrows shot up, a smile creeping across his face. "It's nice."

Draco smiled back. "I like it. This has been... well, Malfoys have kept lovers here for generations."

In disbelief and amusement, Harry laughed. "Are you keeping me here?"

"Would you like me to? Nobody would ever see you again, if you said yes to that. There are privacy charms on this place that you wouldn't believe. The whole island is Unplottable and bristling with Disillusionment and Repulsion spells." 

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco's waist. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he asked with a smirk.

"Yes," Draco replied seriously. "The only people who aren't the current head of the Malfoy family who can get here are people..." he smiled wickedly, "…well, people who have recently been fucked by the current head of the Malfoy family." 

"Mmm."

"That's the only reason it didn't end up being used during the war. It wouldn't have been practical." 

Harry slid his hands to Draco's arse, hoping to distract him. Twice that day, Draco had let slip, Harry thought rather unintentionally, pieces of the past that Draco seemed to prefer locked away, rather than addressed. "And... why would you bring me here?" He bit at Draco's chest through his robes.

Visibly shifting his thoughts, Draco wrapped his arms around Harry. "It's quiet. We'll never be disturbed, here. And I thought you might like it." 

"I do," Harry said, still smiling. He reached for Draco's neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Breaking away, he took a step back, his eyes darting around in amazement. The view really was quite lovely, the hills bright in the late-June sunlight. The sweet smell of the grass wafted to him, kicked up by a gentle breeze, its invisible fingers moving through Harry's hair. Toeing off his shoes, and removing his socks, Harry balanced with his stick and walked toward the water's edge, looking at the stone and mud at the shore. The texture of the grass under his feet tickled; he hadn't felt that since he'd fallen asleep in the garden months ago.

Harry could feel Draco's gaze, just watching him as he explored their surroundings. Draco had brought him somewhere he'd never been before, to a place that felt like time ceased to exist, and, comfortable, Harry lay down in the grass, on his side, looking out over the wind-rippled water. Like a blind man, he ran his hand through the grass, letting the blades lick his skin. A contented smile settled on his face. Everything about their surroundings felt like a Calming Draught made manifest, the feeling of peace enfolding Harry as he looked around. Even over the rippling water, and soft susurrations of the breeze whispering through leaves, flowers, and the grass, there was a stillness that made Harry feel like every negative emotion had begun to float through an opening in his chest and be taken away. Every inhale even tasted different. There was a richness of mud, herbs, flowers, the grass, the water – all of it like tasting a bubbling potion meant just to make the imbiber happy.

Lying back lazily, he turned to look at Draco. "Are you just going to stand there all day?"

Draco tilted his head to one side. "Wouldn't you like to see the house?"

Standing, brushing off his robes, Harry said, "Alright," as he approached Draco and followed him into the house. Harry looked around in amazement at the large, tasteful, if a bit feminine rooms. There was a reception room, dining room, sitting room, and another room with an easel, several bookshelves and a piano.

On the first floor, there was a master bedroom with a smaller sitting room and an en suite, and another set of apartments that, by the look of them, Harry could tell hadn't been used for living, the bedding hopelessly impractical and the bathroom more a haven for pampering. They were nice, though. The master bedroom overlooked the lake, and Harry went to the window, peering out at the water, child-like in his excitement. He went back to the sitting room, Draco following behind.

"Do you like it?" 

"It's brilliant." Harry smiled.

Draco smiled back with apparent satisfaction. "It's yours." 

Surprised, Harry asked, "What?"

The edges of Draco's lips deepened, his expression making his face even more handsome than usual; or maybe it was just that Harry tended to open his eyes and see things differently with each passing day. His perspective had been changing on a lot of things over the months, but more so in recent days, as though some large part of him and the things he really saw had never really been clear. "It's yours." 

"I... Why...?" Harry asked, words failing.

"Traditionally, Malfoy men keep their mistresses here, but I shan't have one. And you value your privacy. You can have it, here. The wards here can be set to keep me out as well as everyone else; they can't at the Manor." A look of concern came over Draco's face. "I know you didn't choose it yourself; if you'd prefer somewhere else, then obviously you don't have to have this place, but I thought you might like it." 

"Prefer somewhere else? Draco... I don't know what to say. This... is just _big_ , you know? You don't have to give me a ... house. It's brilliant. And I appreciate it," Harry said, still stunned. Draco had given him a cottage, a place to call his own, because he knew Harry liked his privacy. And, Harry suspected, as a way to prove that Draco wouldn't have a mistress. Once Harry's mind had caught up with everything Draco had said, he added, "I'd never keep you out. I don't know why you'd think that."

It was obvious to Harry that Draco was uncomfortable. "Sometimes you might prefer solitude." 

Harry shook his head. "I spent a lot of time alone."

"I just... well, if you ever did want to have some time to yourself, you can have it here. This house will accept you as its master, and all the magics on it will answer to you over me. For the whole of your lifetime." Draco shifted. "Presumably you'll want to redecorate. There are house-elves; they can do it for you. Or we can bring things." 

"Has it got a name?"

"No. We just know it as the lake cottage. You can call it anything you like: it's yours." Draco smiled slightly. "You could rebuild it into a castle or burn it to the ground if you wanted to." 

Wonderment filled Harry as he looked at Draco, trying to work out how he was so lucky. He appreciated everything Draco had done, still continued to do, but there was always something more behind those layers of masks that he couldn't pin down, something that made him continue to speculate about Draco's thoughts and feelings. His doubt in their relationship had become small enough to ignore, a smudge of dirt on glass easily wiped away, that always left little traces behind. Part of him also felt that Draco's almost disbelieving touches in the bath when Harry had woken up following the spell removal had been the same feelings. Harry knew he wasn't the most clever man, but he was wise enough to know that he'd rejected Draco a long time ago, and that sting might still be there. And Harry had no intention of ever wanting Draco to feel that rejection again, not when he was aware of what it had cost Draco emotionally to give so much of himself.

Draco cleared his throat. "I can't introduce you to the house-elves, I'm afraid. They won't show themselves while I'm here. They're yours, too. They're tied to the property rather than the family. That's not how it usually works, of course, but this is... well, this isn't like other family properties." 

Harry couldn't leave Draco dangling the way he was. He closed the distance between them and kissed Draco, shoving away his thoughts that he wasn't worth this, and allowed himself to bask in the pleasure of Draco's mouth against his. The relief was obvious, and breaking away, Harry looked into those grey eyes, trying to determine what was going on behind them.

Apparently not wholly reassured, Draco started speaking again immediately. "Of course, the only way you can get here is Apparition." He paused. "This is the only property of this sort attached to the Malfoy estates."

"Thank you," Harry said, a smile coming over his face again.

Draco's fingers twitched, his mouth curving in an answering smile. Considering they were alone, Harry wondered why Draco didn't reach out to touch him if he wanted to. They were silent for a long moment, and Draco cleared his throat again. "If you want tea, you're going to have to order it. The house-elves won't respond to me until they're used to you." 

Harry laughed and took a seat, feeling strange directing an order to thin air. "Um... Can we have some tea, please?"

A full tea service appeared on the table. "I wonder if they can get yours...?"

"Ask for Lapsang, and I'm sure they will. Don't be afraid to be specific; the house-elves need to learn your tastes. But I don't want my tea. I'd quite like to be able to kiss you later," Draco said, taking a seat.

Harry poured their tea. "Do you want anything else?" His cheeks flushed lightly.

Pale eyebrows rose. "What are the options?" 

"Me." Harry took a sip of his tea. "Lunch." He shrugged. "Anything."

Draco smiled. "I always want you." 

"Careful. I might take advantage of that."

"You may take anything you like." 

Harry choked, setting his cup down. Draco's choice in words struck him, and Harry retreated from the offer to take what he wanted.

"Are you hungry?"

"I could eat, if you wish." Draco drank his tea decorously. 

The moment Harry realised he didn't know what to do with control any more, he decided he needed to do something about it. There was no problem in his mind with taking Draco's lead, but he also realised that he hadn't had the opportunity to have Draco at his mercy since the curse had been removed. Draco had seemed reluctant to push him, and having a tongue in his arse as he wailed or having his cock down Draco's throat was all nice, but he wanted more – wanted to learn Draco's body properly and be able to give back to him. 

They hadn't fucked since the spell had been removed, and Harry thought it was about time to put an end to the spun-glass treatment. Now that he was capable of physically expressing himself fully, Harry didn't want to wait; there were no excuses that Draco could give to deny him, unless he planned to hold proper fucking ransom until Harry could use magic proficiently again. And having just been given a place to call his own, a place with an atmosphere where the rest of the world just seemed to disappear, Harry wanted Draco naked, on the bed, his body Harry's to enjoy.

"Come with me," Harry said, standing. Draco set his cup down and rose to follow Harry as he made his way into the master bedroom. He stopped a few paces from the foot of the large bed, already undoing his own robes. There would be another time to undress Draco properly: right then, Harry wanted to watch every movement, drink in every nuance of Draco's body and allow it to fill him until he couldn't take any more.

"I want to know what you like. Take off your robes and lie down on the bed," Harry commanded, and watched as Draco began to undo the buttons on his sleeves, as he always did first, before his collar. The unhurried movement made Harry feel like he was going to go mad if he didn't see every inch of that pale skin on display in the warm sunlight that reached across the rich sheets and coverlet, the bed like a palm to cradle Draco's body. 

The black robe slipped from Draco's shoulders, and pooled on the floor around his feet, the only thing hiding the rest of his body those old-fashioned underthings that Harry wasn't sure he'd get used to seeing. His comfort with Harry’s scrutiny was evident in every movement, the way his fingers manipulated the laces at his hips until the fabric was loose and joined the rest of the pile of cloth. His hair shifted as he untied the laces of his shoes with slow precision, his teasing enough to make Harry's cock fill, showing off that incredible back and spine. 

When Draco stood up again, he was completely naked, his skin illuminated by rays of golden light that highlighted his features beautifully. If Harry touched him before Draco reached the bed, he'd probably become impatient, force things to end entirely too soon for personal enjoyment; and considering this was the first time he would be discovering new things about Draco, he wanted to take his time, relish every twitch of muscle beneath his touch. The mention that the cottage was completely Harry's, the way Draco had deferred to him ever since they'd set foot inside the house, told him Draco would do anything Harry wanted within those walls.

What he desired was simple. To have all of Draco's control directed and poured into his body and pleasure. And if he'd waited what felt like ages to do this, he could hold out just a little bit longer. Rushing now would be useless; and even if his mouth was already salivating as he watched Draco move to the bed and sink onto the large surface before lying back, Harry refused to rush.

Feet still bare, Harry just had to let his robe down over his shoulders and remove his boxers, which already protruded in front of him. His cock, half-hard from the vivid images in his head, gave a slight twitch at Draco's scrutiny. That shift of fabric around his cock and balls made him tremble with anticipation. 

"On your stomach," Harry clarified, and let his robe drop to the floor, the sound a muffled prelude cut short. The languid arch and twist of those hips and chest kept Harry's attention. Darting eyes followed every curve and movement of muscle until Draco had settled with his face turned against the pillow, arms supporting his head. Pale hair lay flat against Draco's temple, and his ribcage moved in a steady rhythm that Harry couldn't echo. Inside his chest, his heart pounded, a magnet pulling him toward Draco; his feet had moved of their own accord, shuffling him closer. Lowering his boxers to the floor, Harry stepped out of the undergarment, his eyes never leaving Draco's body.

He could have done it standing; but there was something about being able to use his fingers, mouth, entire body to blanket Draco. The newness of it all made his hands feel like wind-swept branches. Two steps and he'd be at the foot of the bed, merely inches away from the warmth of Draco's body. He tried to breathe in the ever-present patience that surrounded Draco, but all he got with each inhale was the taste of Draco's skin and his own arousal. It was subtle, the hints just a tease against his tongue, willing him to close the distance and indulge the pull that was stronger than any Summoning charm.

And as though a spell had compelled him, he climbed onto the bed, just below Draco's feet. He planted his knees and rested against his calves, reaching for the long, narrow foot that lay waiting for him. The skin was slightly wrinkled, tickling his fingertips as they grazed over the surface in a soft swipe from toe – letting his thumb linger in the arch as it flexed beneath his touch – to heel. 

Harry drank in every muted pant that poured from Draco's lips, the sound diminishing, replaced by a soft sigh as Harry's thumbs made their way to the inside of Draco's leg and over the tender flesh of Draco's ankles. The skin was smooth to the touch, velvet against the sensitive pads of his fingers. Curious, Harry took Draco's foot in hand, lifting it. His leg bent automatically, the tension of movement ending as soon as Harry had a grip that wouldn't falter. Readjusting his position, he leaned forward, breathing out against the inside of Draco's ankle. Another sigh filled Harry with the spinning and coiling of desire, and he let it fill him.

The flavour of Draco's skin coated his tongue as he ran it along the knobbly bone. It was the hint of salt and the freshness of summer rain, lingering until his mouth was alive with the tang of need. Harry looked up as he placed a kiss against the ridge, taking in the tint spreading across Draco's cheek. He lowered Draco's leg and moved to the other, doing the same. Moving his hands up those sinuous legs, he placed a kiss in the hollow behind Draco's knees, running his tongue along the tendons. On the right side, another sigh, that hadn't come with the left, drew Harry's mouth back to that spot. 

As he painted desire against Draco's skin, the pants and sighs seemed to become louder. The haze of want pulled him further up Draco's body, his hands tightening around the rise of muscle in Draco's thighs. A quiver tapped against Harry's palm as he shifted, straddling one of Draco's thighs. He rubbed his cock against Draco, moaning his pleasure as his foreskin slipped over the head of his cock and down again with the friction. He closed his eyes, needing to regain his equilibrium before he sank into the current of hunger. Inhaling, he opened his eyes, the curve of Draco's arse, the dip just above the crevice, stealing his attention. He imagined running his tongue from there to Draco's balls, imagined massaging the sac as it hung between Draco's legs. Mindful of his knee, he leaned forward, running his hands along the tone of Draco's legs until he reached the junction of thigh and buttock.

Flattening his palm, there was another faint tense of muscle. He supported himself with an arm on each side of Draco's torso; and stricken with the need to smell Draco, to taste him, Harry dipped his head until his mouth met skin. He parted his lips against Draco, his breath rolling across the responsive surface. And even though his mouth and nose were pressed against Draco, it wasn't enough. But he could push aside the ravenous edge that Draco's body seemed to demand from him long enough to continue. He had other plans. And nipping at the pale skin, he let himself become lost in teasing, tasting, until he could no longer parry at the sharp need to feel the weight of Draco's balls in his mouth.

Against Draco's skin, Harry said, "Spread your legs and get on your knees." He backed away as Draco shifted until he was on his hands and knees, the parts of his body Harry hadn’t been able to see and explore on display for Harry's enjoyment. And all Harry could see was the plane of Draco's back, the curve of that incredible arse that was higher than Harry's hips. Bracing himself against Draco's body, Harry moved between those spread legs; and when he was comfortable, Harry dragged his hands from Draco's hips until his thumbs were poised to pry Draco open further to smell him, taste him.

With deliberate, languorous movements, Harry bowed and reached between Draco's legs, a hand wrapping around Draco's erection. He pulled against the shaft as he inhaled, letting the faint traces of sweat and Draco overpower his senses. Back and forth, he moved his hand, the feeling of hot, solid flesh heavy in his firm grip. His cock throbbed as he used his other hand to open Draco further, discover every secret of Draco's body.

He'd had his fingers inside that tight hole. But that wasn't what he wanted right then. There would be ample time to explore the tensing and relaxing ring of muscle and everything that lay hidden behind it. In that moment, he wanted his mouth against the swaying sac that he could no longer ignore.

Plunging in, Harry's breath ghosted across the sensitive skin as he opened his mouth, hot and wet, his tongue darting out. Swipe after swipe, the faint salty taste gathered on his tongue, the ridges and textures changing. He continued his firm strokes against Draco's cock, the tension against his hand growing; then, his composure having melted away, he opened his mouth, sucking one of Draco's balls in. Each low pant from Draco was enough to tell Harry how much his tongue gliding over the now-smooth skin was appreciated. He released his hold on Draco's straining cock, steadying his balls. Draco flexed and shifted, claiming Harry's attention. Wanting him still, Harry held with a gentle hand and sucked. 

The weight and feel of Draco's balls were like presenting food to a starved man; and Harry lapped and sucked at them, a stream of soft sighs and pants continuing to lead him along the shore of Draco's body. Moaning softly, Harry finally released his hold, his bottom lip wet and glistening. He swallowed, and tilted his head back, a feeling of inebriation making his mind and body seem to float with each landmark of his lover that he discovered. 

"Sit up," Harry finally managed, his voice like a beacon, leading Draco through the heavy fog of their shared desire. Draco did as he was told, his back straight, the valley of his spine calling for Harry's tongue. Every inch of skin was tight, his body toned and hard. Experimentally, Harry traced the two dips on Draco's lower back with his fingers, a slow roll of Draco's hips accompanying the touch. Enticed, Harry put his hand between Draco's shoulders and ran his cheek and lips across the same spot, getting the same response.

Harry shifted closer, his chest against Draco's back. Slowly, he traced Draco's hips, as he pressed kisses against Draco's back. His hands seemed to move of their own accord, guiding his fingers across Draco's abdomen. The quick tautening of muscles was minute, but Harry felt it. Still lower he moved, until his palm lay flat against one of Draco's hips, the other reaching for Draco's neglected erection. Harry ground his teeth together in impatience, his grip around the shaft tight. The warm weight of Draco’s balls caressed his forearm with each movement. After a few teasing strokes, he released his hold, damning himself for letting the weight of desire bury him.

Drawing his hands up Draco's sides, when Harry reached his lower ribs, Draco's hips gave another seductive roll, a slow, shuddering breath fighting its way from his mouth. And Harry snapped. He couldn't wait. He needed to see Draco, kiss him, feel his hands, too. 

"Turn around and lie down," Harry said, his voice muffled by the kisses he placed along Draco's spine. 

Again doing as he was asked, Draco settled against the bed, his legs parted. He blinked, his eyelids like clouds hiding the moon; and Harry felt the same pull as he had when he'd watched Draco lie down the first time with no questions, no demur. It was taking every ounce of self-control not to let himself fall into the moment and not seek an anchor until he'd had his fill of what tossing and turning mid-air without any security felt like.

"This is a lot harder than I thought it would be," Harry admitted. "I want you to have me, but I want to keep touching you." He smiled, watching Draco's face. No reply came, but he had a feeling Draco understood the need that surfaced, ripping away the sensibility of patience. Entranced by the sight of Draco completely at Harry's mercy, his trust obvious, Harry ran his tongue along the underside of Draco's cock, an ache in his bones accompanying the flavour and scent. His body betrayed all rational thought, his resolve not to rush things made brittle by need. When the senses ruled the mind, there was nothing left but the attraction, the need to fulfil each of them. The smell of skin, the taste of breath, the feel of desire as it forced breath to become so precious each lungful left a burn through the chest, the sound of pleasure, the sight of pleasure. They all combined, inseparable in Harry's mind as he ran his hands over Draco's stomach, up his chest. 

"I want to hear you. For right now. Something. Or talk to me. While you fuck me. I liked when you talked to me when we were in front of the mirror." Harry ran his hand along Draco's face as he covered Draco's body with his own. "Like the way you look when you come."

A heartbeat ticked by in infinite seconds before Draco spoke. 

"What do you want me to say? That your hands feel good on my skin? That I sometimes feel that your weight on me is all that keeps me from falling away? That the sound of your breath when you're close to the edge and almost ready to plead for it almost makes me lose my head?" Draco's voice was like a starless sky, all of the even eloquence replaced with a timbre of sandpapered breath. 

"Yes," Harry breathed, pressing his cock against Draco's; long fingers moved down Harry's flanks, resting just above his hips as he rose to meet the firm press of Harry's length against his.

"You have no idea how you look, and feel, and sound. I can't begin to describe it. You overwhelm my senses. If there's anything in the world but you, it's meaningless."

Harry moved his hand along Draco's chest, his fingertip brushing a hard nipple, his eyes never leaving Draco's. 

"I can't focus on anything else. When you move your hands, the part of me they leave is cold. As if it'll never be warm again. But the part of me you touch burns. If I could live in that heat all my life, I would." 

Draco's words felt like an iron grip around Harry's chest. They were new, not soft reassurances of how well Harry was doing like during the failed attempt, nor were they the same commands meant to guide Harry's visual pleasure, as they had been in front of the mirror. Each one was an ounce to fill Harry's cup of visceral needs. Shifting, Harry straddled Draco's hips, saying, "I'm yours. You can have anything you want," his voice like ripped fabric swaying in the wind. Lying flat against Draco, Harry gripped tight, rolling so Draco was between his legs, on top of him. He loved that weight, every bit of skin touching sparkling with sensation.

A contented sigh, as though Draco was at home and satisfied with his pelvis tight against Harry's, wove its way into Harry. And Harry trapped a whine of disappointment between his tongue and teeth when the warm weight lifted from his chest and Draco rose over him like nightfall. "And then you open your mouth. And you speak, or moan, or wail... or howl," Draco went on. "There's no sound like your voice." Long fingers stroked Harry's throat lightly. "So many colours and shapes. It amazes me. I could never tire of hearing it. And the variety is endless."

Reaching up, Harry pulled their mouths together, his lips pressing against Draco's in a fierce angle of penetration that could have been his cock slipping in and out of Draco's body. He didn't care when his teeth crashed against Draco's, didn't care when all he could feel was the continuous friction between his legs, sending tendrils of heat clawing at him. Every pause forced a moan of frustration between their mouths; and when he lost that connection, a petulant plea rose in his throat, only to die when Draco lowered his head and inhaled deeply next to Harry's neck.

"And your scent clings to the air where you've been. I can't describe it, but I couldn't forget it. It changes, but it's always the same at its core. Arousal gives it an edge like magic. I nearly gave orders that the pillowcases shouldn't be changed with the sheets so I could keep it a little longer." Draco's tongue edged along Harry's ear, his words winding straight into Harry as he continued. "I can't help answering it. When you're close to me, and I can almost taste it in the air beside me... it's all I can do sometimes not to Apparate you away from wherever we are and just breathe you in until my lungs burst."

To have Draco explain how much he wanted Harry was new. He craved it. To hear it was salve against an ill-tended wound, soothing the skin. His entire body demanded the connection that drew them together. 

"Is that what you want to hear? That my senses betray my self-control when I'm around you? That you intoxicate me as wine has long since ceased to be able to? That there isn't a potion or charm created more addictive than you and the sense of your presence?" Into Harry's ear, the words flowed, Draco's voice still tinted dark. 

Breathing heavily, Harry tried to speak. "I..." He stopped, swallowing. "Sometimes I can't believe you're real. That we're real. You know how dreams... well my dreams always feel real... can feel so real when you wake up? For a long time I thought I might. Wake up and you'd be gone, I mean. It didn't bother me so much at the outset. But when you were in my head every night when I slept, then when I woke up, I couldn't help watching you, wanting you. And the way you touch me... I don't want anyone else ever to touch me again." 

A savage look came over Draco's face as he said, "Neither do I." He lowered his face into Harry's neck again. "I would rip her spine out and strangle her with it." 

"I think... I'd rather you fuck me." Harry turned his face against Draco's, rubbing their cheeks together. He really didn't want to think about whether Draco meant Ginny or Luna.

Draco laughed. "You expect me to be able to talk in full sentences while I'm in you? I would defy anyone to manage it. And murder anyone who tried." 

That possessive streak always got into Harry like a sickness, heating his skin with a fever, calling his own need to claim Draco. He ran his hands up Draco's sides, digging his nails into the skin. Reflexively, Draco undulated against him; and Harry arched into it, moaning.

"I love that," he hissed. "I don't... know how to say the same thing. Would you want to hear it?"

"I want to hear anything you want to tell me," Draco said, his voice low and serious.

"I love the way you feel against me. The way I react to you. Using the same words wouldn't mean the same thing, but I can't get enough of the way you touch me. Or the way you feel inside me. Around me. You've consumed me, almost." Harry moved his hands along Draco's arms until his fingertips rested against the rapid pulse in Draco's throat. "I don't feel weak because I would rather you fuck me."

Draco's concentration returned to Harry's face, and he appeared mystified by the comment. "Weak? Weak isn't a word I would ever associate with you. Nobody in his right mind would." 

"No... some Muggles. They... they think because you fuck me, you're the one in charge. That I'm weak. It's stupid. But... I love the way you possess me. Do you remember when I told you about the dream I had? At Christmas?" Harry ran his hand across the dip of Draco's collarbone, down his chest.

"I remember every word you've ever said to me." 

"Not all of the stupid things, I hope." Harry laughed, raking his nails against Draco's back again, rewarded with Draco's body arching in obvious appreciation. "I couldn't get that out of my head. How possessive you were. I could hear your voice... like you were there with me. And wanted it. More than I've ever wanted anything else. And now..." Harry hesitated, "…that I'm better… I want to know what that feels like." 

It didn't matter that his face felt like he'd been bathed in sunlight all day, or that he had just admitted to wanting something he would have shied away from six months ago. Now Harry, while still guarding some of his thoughts, if only to sort them properly, had someone he didn't mind blurting out his latest fantasy to. In his own strange way, he felt he owed Ginny and Lucius a debt of gratitude, because if they hadn't fucked up so badly, Harry would never have what was right there in front of him. He reckoned he'd have never explored men at all if Draco hadn't moved into Hightrees, if Ginny's actions hadn't taken everything he'd done out of love and made it seem completely meaningless. 

There with Draco settled between his legs, though, he couldn't imagine anything else. He'd reacted to Luna's touch, but it hadn't caused the same heat to surge through his veins until he burned from the inside out. And that was only one of the many reasons he would always be honest with his thoughts, with what he wanted from Draco, wanted with Draco.

Draco kissed him. "Every word." 

The lack of response to Harry's voiced desires, new and old, didn't bother him; he knew it was just how Draco was. It was almost like he needed to single out the most innocuous statement in order to feel comfortable with the conversation. Pretend it was never said, and he'd be safe from having to voice something that required true emotion. It made Harry wonder what Draco's fantasies had been like before he'd taken the real thing in lieu of them. "I didn't want you to be my Healer any more, then."

"I know. You made that quite clear." 

Harry smiled. "I wanted to know you. And I had long since stopped trying to know people."

"You know me now. Probably better than anyone else," Draco said, licking Harry's neck.

Harry moaned softly at the blaze of sensation, running his fingers along Draco's lower ribs. He arched against the movement of Draco's hips, and wanted to swallow that shuddering breath that forced Draco's eyes closed. In the back of Harry's thoughts, he acknowledged with a swell of happiness that Draco felt Harry knew him better than anyone else, a concomitant realisation that Draco had chosen to _let_ Harry in further than anyone else bringing a smile to his face. 

"Even in this. It's never been like this with anyone else." The diffident admission eased some of Harry's fears; his words were never as eloquent as Draco's, and that his way of speaking seemed acceptable to Draco was enough to chase them away. But he wondered how Draco could say those things without the need to flee. 

"I like that," Harry said, a bright flush moving across his cheeks.

Draco bit Harry's collarbone thoughtfully, his hips still moving, forcing another moan from Harry. 

"You give yourself completely. It's breathtaking." The rhythm of Draco's movement rolled along Harry's skin, his thoughts becoming wind-blown sand, scattered, as his entire body thrummed at the continuous contact. "I could watch you like this forever, I think. And lose my mind happily." 

Harry rolled his head to the side, arching into Draco's gyrations. Their balls were against each other, cocks grinding into one another. 

Moaning, Harry attempted to speak around the thick taste of arousal. "Goin' to lose mine if you keep doin' that. I want you to fuck me. Want to see you this time." 

A feral smile tore across Draco's face. "I can do that." 

Spreading his legs, Harry opened himself. A sticky trail glistened on his stomach; and he gripped his cock, watching as Draco shifted and reached out, his wand landing in his open palm. 

Draco incanted a spell, then tossed his wand aside, its purpose served, and Harry felt the gentle press of a finger against his arsehole. He wouldn't have cared if Draco had just fucked him, without preparing him physically; but he knew that Draco wouldn't willingly hurt him, so he'd just have to be patient a little bit longer. Those slender fingers worked in and out of him at an agonising pace, teasing, making him rock his hips into the obsessively careful penetration. It forced his hand from his swollen prick. And Harry watched, with avid eyes, as Draco's chest belied the collected expression on his face; it was obvious to Harry how much Draco wanted this, too. Those grey eyes watched Harry's expression, his body, as Draco's fingers curled inside him. He spread his legs wider in invitation, a moan escaping his lips.

His hands lay at his sides, the coverlet tight in his fingers. He loosened his grip, his hands trembling as he brought them to his chest, moved along his ribs, down his abdomen. The trail of hair from his navel to his cock brushed against his palms; if Draco was addicted to him, Harry wanted to keep it that way. And Draco's eyes followed the movement, until Harry reached his cock. Something flared behind his eyes, a look of jealousy, perhaps. His face grew hotter as Draco leaned forward, his tongue roaming over Harry's fingers, pushing them aside. His teeth felt like a chastisement for taking the pleasure of that touch away; and Harry did as he was bid, relishing that feeling of surrender.

A look of satisfaction was on Draco's face, and he removed his fingers, trailing them along the tender inside of Harry's leg. Draco shifted, and hooked his arm under Harry's knee until it was supported by the crook of Draco's elbow. Draco's skin was hot against his; his arms flexing with tension and control. Harry had abandoned all semblance of caring what he looked like. The way Draco's eyes swept over him as he settled between Harry's thighs, Harry _felt_ the desire like rivulets across his skin in a never-ending flow. He hung somewhere between mist and shadows, his heart erratic as Draco began to guide his cock, his knuckles hard against the sensitive swell of Harry's wet arse. 

Every part of Harry relaxed; his hole tightened around the slick glide of Draco's cock, his mouth voicing everything his body felt. The consumption of reality, his mind, everything, was more potent than any potion he'd ever tasted. He opened his eyes, meeting Draco's grey gaze as he surrendered to sensation. 

It was pleasure and a burn that he hadn't felt since the first time Draco had fingered him. And in the madness of slow thrusts that just teased him, Harry couldn't ask for more. He wanted to, but every time he tried to speak, Draco shifted, forcing all words from him, turning them into harsh pants and broken moans. He writhed, a pinned snake, aching for release, the bedding bunching around him. That was just the beginning, and Harry was ready to beg Draco to do something else, stop holding back. 

Above him, Draco's eyes never left his, a Stunning spell that only intensified with each slow, powerful drive of his hips. 

There was so much stimulation, visual, physical and emotional. It all coalesced, crashing into Harry as though he was nothing but a rock in a waterfall. He'd gladly let Draco spill over him like this forever. And he wanted it. Breathing was a matter of the body reacting, but to breathe and find absolute fulfilment in something required to live, that was another thing entirely. 

The fast pulse under his palms, that extended into him through Draco's cock, followed Harry's. Draco's mouth descended against Harry's and it was as powerful as a Dementor's Kiss. He slid his hand around the back of Draco's neck, and kept their mouths together, sucking on that devilish tongue the same way he would Draco's cock. Hungry and eager. Every moan and hitch of breath was drowned by the slap of Draco's balls against Harry's arse. And he struggled for purchase against Draco's body when a firm grip took hold of his cock. New sensations flooded his body; the ache that had started as nothing more than an easily ignored lick of fire that wanted to engulf him became heavy. Now, every thrust fanned those flames; and Draco's body moved against him, in him, as though nothing else existed beyond that room and those four walls.

"Draco," Harry rasped, his mouth falling open in a plea for more. _Harder. Please._ But his mouth refused to form the shape of words, his head clouded by the firm tugs against his erection and the continuous thrusts of Draco's hips. 

Hungry to have his mouth against Draco, Harry pulled pale strands of hair until his neck was exposed, nipping at the angular jaw. He ran his teeth along the taut tendons, feeling them flex against his mouth and tongue. With each swift stroke against his cock, and the thrusts that ran deeper, Harry was becoming nothing more than buzzing nerve endings and a sweat-slicked, undulating body. 

Then Draco changed his angle. An unexpected kaleidoscope of colours burst behind Harry's eyes; and he fell into the morphing centre of it all. He arched, driving further down onto Draco's cock. Pleasure erupted through him, a searing flood that started at the base of his spine and rushed inside every vein. For a moment, the world stopped. Hot come rolled over Draco's hand and onto Harry's stomach. Words died on his tongue as he twitched, a gratified exhalation brushing against his lips. Harry felt like someone had cast a Confundus Charm on him.

There was nothing but the dizzying spin in his head and the thrusts that stopped, leaving him bereft and tingling as though he had been treated with Shock Spells. His arse rippled around Draco's cock; and slowly his breaths became more than staccato notes, his balls throbbing at the sight of Draco licking the remnants of white from his fingers.

And down Harry's body Draco moved; Draco's tongue lapped at the thick droplet of come that rolled over Harry's cockhead, to his stomach. The fluttering inside Harry only grew in intensity as Draco's tongue swirled against his body, smearing the white pools against the dips and ridges of Harry's abdomen. That Draco savoured every taste was obvious. His tongue sank into Harry's navel, gathering every trace of come on Harry's skin.

"If I hadn't come already, that would've done it."

Draco looked up, his tongue darting out and swiping the remains of semen off his lips. "I'm a Malfoy. I'm entitled to be depraved if I so choose."

"I'll remember that," Harry teased. _For when I'm a Malfoy._

Not finished with his oral exploration, Draco lowered his face and continued to lick at Harry's body, his attention shifting to the base of Harry's still half-hard cock. Harry, needing to touch Draco, reached out and grabbed a fistful of pale hair. His pelvis rolled into the continued attention, a soft moan dragged from his lips while Draco nuzzled through his pubic hair.

If it was possible, Draco looked like Harry felt, that rush of need made visible by the unsteady licks. It was like trying to make sense of something that was too large fitting into something too small; it was clear to Harry, though. In response, his mind teemed with images of semen across Draco's face and lips, his tongue and throat tickling with the scent and flavour of sex. At the sight of his thoughts made into something he could reach out and touch, Harry moaned again. It didn't help that Draco looked wanton, unabashed, sybaritic, and so obviously finding pleasure in the taste of Harry's come, Harry's body. The need burned Harry, and like Draco, he'd let it sear him.

"Oh, fuck, Draco, do you have any idea what you look like?"

Draco, easing his hair from Harry's grip, said, "Happy, I trust."

With nothing to censor his thoughts, Harry said, "And like a whore," his voice lowering, the flush on his face darkening.

"When we're married, you'll be able to afford me." There was a note of humour that slipped over the arousal.

"But I get you for free now," Harry said cheekily.

Draco laughed. "I'm like any of the finer things in life. Free to those who can afford it, very expensive to those who can't."

"If there's a vault that can pay for it, I'll end up a murderer," Harry growled.

That wicked tongue moved against Harry again, his body thrumming that it seemed to cool his overheated skin. "You have a currency far more valuable than gold."

"Oh?" Harry asked.

"Mmmm."

"I've given you everything that I am," Harry said.

"Exactly," Draco said smugly. "Nobody else has anything I want."

Emotions swam around Harry, creating a whirlpool of thoughts he didn't have the articulation to voice. He felt like the luckiest man alive; that he might not deserve everything Draco gave; like he had gone his whole life without ever hearing a word until those had been spoken. And he knew that Draco had given the same; it was written across Harry's body with each touch, a mark on his soul that he'd never dared hope for. The permanence had been etched into him finely. "Me, either."

Draco's tongue, a press of fire, moved against him again. It occurred to Harry to wonder what Draco thought, if it was anything like the snippets that flashed through his mind, while he savoured the evidence of pleasure; what it felt like to be inside Harry's body.

"Are you going to come to me, or will I have to come to you?" Harry smirked. "I've already come _for_ you."

Nuzzling Harry's groin again, Draco said, "I'm quite happy where I am."

"And if I want you to come in me, see you when you come in me?" Harry asked.

Harry hadn't realised that a lick could be regretful, but Draco proved it possible. "It could be arranged." He heaved himself away, his eyes lingering on Harry's cock, before he moved between Harry's thighs again.

"I'm sorry you have to stop. I'll... I can try to deal with it."

Draco shook his head. "I don't mind." Then he tilted his head to the side, his expression expectant. "How do you want me?" 

_Any way I can have you._

"Like before. I need to see this. Everything else—" _your masks, your control,_ "—disappears and I get to see _you_. Beautiful. Different every time, but similar. I've watched it change, but it still affects me the same way."

Draco smiled.

"Like that," Harry said, his lips curving up in response.

A long moan left Harry as Draco's cock sank into him again. Harry reached out, his hands driven by the need to touch Draco. He rocked into each thrust, understanding taking pleasure in another's pleasure. Draco's body, his expression, all of it was like a caress against his nerves. Swept in the current of Draco's body and the gradual change from ragged, heavy breaths, to intensely controlled inhalations, Harry watched, his hands continuing their exploration of Draco's body. They slipped over the dip in Draco's spine, the involuntary roll making Harry arch closer, across narrow hips. Muscle flexed under his touch; and Draco's eyelids dropped closed, his concentration absolute.

"Draco. Look at me," Harry said, his voice the edges of raw quartz. Draco's expression had already begun to shift, the mask slipping. His eyes, previously hidden, now shone with the intense concentration that always made Harry envious of whatever had captured Draco's attention.

The smooth glide of Draco's cock stopped. A rush of sensations accompanied the deep, punctuated thrust that made Draco still. " _Harry._ " His name was like a prayer against Draco's lips, the edges curling up into a smile that resembled a hunter who'd cornered his quarry. Pulses stretched Harry's hole, the warmth of come filling him. There was a brief, erratic jerk of Draco's hips, and he stilled. Draco's breath ghosted across Harry's sweaty skin; and Draco gripped him, his cock slipping free from Harry's arse as their positions were switched again.

Come trickled down Harry's balls, his chest against Draco's. He felt dirty, with a mix of pride that Draco had taken pleasure in his body. Lying comfortably with his forearms and elbows against the bed, Harry stroked whatever skin of Draco's he could touch with his thumbs, no words needed between them.

Time seemed to melt away like the wax of a lit candle, and the daylight faded as Harry lay atop Draco, the scent of sex and sweat heavy in the air. Draco's face was still in Harry's hair, and he was content listening as Draco's heartbeat tapped an even cadence beneath his ear.

When Harry's legs had grown tired and began to tingle, he shifted and looked at Draco's mussed hair, his eyes closed and expression relaxed. "God, you're beautiful," Harry whispered, heat flooding his cheeks, feeling silly with his chosen descriptor. He had no idea what else he was supposed to say, though. Draco smiled, his eyes opening slowly as he leaned forward and kissed Harry's forehead.

"We can stay here tonight, if you want," Harry offered.

"That would be lovely," Draco said, that smile that seemed to take hold of Harry's heart and squeeze affectionately spreading on his face again.

**~*~*~*~**

Three days after Draco had taken Harry to the cottage, just after breakfast, Harry was sitting on the sofa in the suite they'd shared for the past few months. Luna sat across from him, her expression serious as she tried to instruct him through using the spells Draco had listed for him to try. Hermione had been helping, too, and Harry shuddered in memory of her correcting his pronunciation of spells in the first year. Luna, fortunately, just seemed to guide Harry and let him make his mistakes, and she seemed to have a never-ending fountain of patience that kept her calm and collected, even when Harry grew frustrated. 

They'd spent some time talking, with Harry thanking her and making sure he told her that he understood what she'd done when she'd asked for a night with him in exchange to carry their children. She, too, had been offering a sacrifice; it could have cost the friendship of two people she loved deeply, but she'd been willing to take that chance. In the wave of understanding he'd had since then, he'd had to thank Luna for also evening the scales of sacrifice between him and Draco. As always, she'd shared a dreamy smile and made a statement that Harry didn't understand. Now she stared at him with a look that demanded respect of her knowledge, and Harry couldn't help but smile faintly at the reversal of their roles from the fifth year. 

"You're not focussing, Harry," she said, interrupting his thoughts.

Harry looked at his wand with dismay.

Every time he had used his wand, he grew more and more disheartened. He'd tried for days to levitate a feather, to get a simple _Lumos_ spell to work, but he always ended up with a nasty shock in his palm, and just a flash that was like a weak bolt of lightning. He'd also learned that doing these simple exercises stole his energy, making him feel like he'd eaten a heavy meal in summertime.

It was the fear of this very thing happening that had made Harry reticent to ask for his wand back, and now that he had it, part of him wanted to chuck it out a window and watch it deteriorate with the seasons. The fact that Draco had had to remind him to get it when they'd left the cottage should have been a blinding arrow that pointed to how little interest Harry had in actually using the thing. Of course, Harry had been more interested in Draco's offer to teach him how to play the piano after Harry had mentioned he might have to learn since there was one at the cottage anyway.

"Harry."

At the sound of his name, Harry looked up again, realising he'd been thinking about things that had no bearing on that moment. He cleared his throat and tried to focus, but he couldn't believe that the wand he'd had for years wasn't responding to him. He literally hadn't felt anything from it, apart from the shocks resulting from his attempts at the _Lumos_ spell. It was a dead weight, almost like a friend who had turned their back on him completely. Determined to reacquaint himself with his magic and wand, Harry continued with the spells, to no avail. And then a thought, swift as a summer breeze, came and went, leaving him with a curiosity that he couldn't ignore. 

"Luna, you try it."

Tilting her head to the side, she gave Harry a strange look, almost of praise, only he didn't understand what it meant. He held out the slender wood and it brushed across his fingers faintly as she removed it from his hand. Knowing that most wands tended to have a certain feel right away, Harry watched as she smiled, almost nodding respectfully to the wand in her hand, a look at _hers_ in apology complimenting the strange dance. Her eyes twinkled for a moment, and, gifted witch that she was, she released a shower of orchids from the tip. Why he was surprised, Harry didn't know.

"Try another," he urged her.

That smile of dreams took over her face and she swished his wand, her hare Patronus erupting into the room and circling Harry playfully. He stared slack-jawed as Luna inclined her head and placed the wand on the table, and found himself wondering why his wand was rejecting him. The lore he'd learned had all been tangled and most of it was muddied by years of distance; he felt the only way he'd recover it would be to view the memory in a Pensieve, only he required a wand to get the memory, and he wasn't sure he could even allow another person to capture a memory of his. He started to ask whether it was possible, but then something else occurred to him: Draco had replaced all of the magical items to their respective boxes on the chest of drawers, and Harry had seen him put his old hawthorn wand away. That wand, Harry recalled, had always been friendly in his hand, and even returning it to Draco almost eight years ago had seemed strange. And if his old wand worked for Luna, then why wouldn't it work for him? The only explanation Harry could think of for his wand’s reaction to him was a combination of it having been broken, unused for nearly a year, and that he had changed since the wand had accepted him as its master and wasn’t terribly enamoured of the man he had grown into from the boy he had been at eleven years old.

For a moment, he worried his bottom lip, a decision easing its way through his tangled thoughts as a compulsion to stand, with a strange feeling of rightness in his bones, and get Draco’s old wand, bubbled within him. He opened the bedroom door, and crossed the room, almost as though pulled by some invisible string. 

His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for Draco's box and opened the lid, eyeing the contents. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but there was something drawing him back to that wand; and he really needed to know if it was just another dead end or had any possibilities. Turning when he heard footsteps behind him, Harry saw Luna, her gaze settled on him, a spark of delight behind eyes that were too old for her age. Transferring his holly wand to his left hand, Harry reached into the box and removed Draco's, a familiar feeling of friendliness settling like a weight in his palm. He tightened his grip around the wood, and turned toward Luna with an indomitable expression. 

" _Lumos!_ " Light spread out from the tip of the wand and cast a white-blue glow around the room. _"Nox."_ The light died as quickly as it had come, and Harry's lips quirked in a smile, his success giving him the will to continue.

Luna smiled, the joy she felt written across her face. 

" _Accio feather!_ " Harry said, the small white feather from the sitting room flying into his hand. A triumphant noise burst from his throat, and his smile spread into a broad grin that lit his entire face.

Like he had the first time Draco had brought his wand, Harry closed his eyes and let the gallery of feelings, thoughts, and images from his time with Draco create a corridor of happiness that he raced along, the spell on the tip of his tongue before he had even opened his eyes. " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

A jet of silver burst from the tip of the wand, and morphed into a smaller figure, one that made Harry pause, his breath having left him. Where he expected to see a stag, a peacock stood, its long neck arched and feathers spread like fingers. Once the initial shock had worn off, Harry experimentally directed his new Patronus around the room, and finally stopped, his elation impossible to hold back. The implication of the change in the Patronus wasn't lost on him; that Draco had usurped his own father in his thoughts meant a lot to him. With a wave the wand, Harry said, "If you're not busy, I want to show you something," and sent the peacock in search of Draco.

Draco Apparated into the room immediately, his surprise evident in his expression. "What happened to your stag?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. I know a Patronus can change, though. Tonks' became a big dog after Sirius died."

Luna, with a knowing and satisfied look, edged out of the bedroom as Draco made a noise that Harry would have thought of as 'huh' on anybody else's lips. "Well, I'm glad you've reconnected with your wand. Have you tried some transfigurations?" 

Harry snorted in amusement; Draco seemed not to have noticed that Harry was holding two wands. "Not my wand. Your wand."

Draco blinked, his expression changing rapidly, until he settled on a blank look. "What made you try that?"

Flushing, Harry tried to explain, but when Draco caught sight of Luna, he demanded, "Lovegood, how many times do I have to ask you not just to wander into bedrooms?"

"I'm leaving, Draco."

"Are you?" he asked with lukewarm disinterest. "Wait for me in the library for a moment. I'll return those books."

Luna smiled and closed the bedroom door behind her, and Draco turned an expectant look to Harry.

"I don't know. I saw when you put it back in that box of yours. I just… felt like I should try it," Harry managed.

Draco nodded. "It clearly works."

"Better than mine did, I think."

Draco nodded again. "And it performs on other magic as well?"

Instead of replying, Harry pointed at one of Draco's buttons and Transfigured it into a quill. It looked odd still attached to the front of Draco's robes.

Looking down, Draco said, "Very clever. Now turn it back."

Harry reversed the spell and lowered the wand, still smiling. Draco had taken on that preoccupied look that Harry knew meant he was, for one of his obscure reasons, on the verge of bolting for the sanctuary of his library. Before he could move, Harry stepped forward, his left hand extended. "I don't need it any more," he said, offering Draco the holly wand. It had been a strange feeling, something between compulsion and impulse, but born of watching Draco put his glasses in the box, that had prompted him to the gesture. Harry had no clue what the importance of the glasses was to Draco, but he had a feeling offering his old wand would be similar; and he wanted Draco to have it. He had a feeling it would make him happy.

Watching those grey eyes shift to Harry's right hand, he waited. Draco blinked quickly and seemed to regain his composure, finally reaching out and taking the holly wand from Harry's hand, saying, "Thank you."

Harry nodded and stepped back, knowing that Draco would need to reshape things mentally before he was comfortable. Understanding that, Harry was able to smile with equanimity as Draco left the room, leaving him standing with the comfort of an old friend in his palm, and pleasant warmth in his chest.

**~*~*~*~**

As they were eating lunch, Kreacher appeared beside Harry with a creaking _pop_ that startled him. 

"Master Harry has a letter," the elf said, holding out the parchment.

"Thank you, Kreacher," Harry said, taking it and eyeing the seal. It wasn't familiar, but he imagined it wouldn't have made it to the house if the sender had cursed it. Shrugging, Harry slid his finger under the edge and popped the golden wax, his eyes drifting over the familiar slanted writing. _Heard you was better…_ swam in his vision, and with concentrated effort, he made it through Dudley's letter.

"Draco…" Harry said, his face crumpling, trying to work out how he wanted to present the thoughts that had accompanied reading Dudley's note.

Draco looked up.

"I told Dudley I wanted to talk to him... and I don't really know what'll happen, or what he's like now, but... I was thinking maybe we could invite him and Millicent for tea?"

Draco frowned. "You're not asking my permission, are you?"

"Yes." Feeling like he was wearing robes that were too tight, Harry shifted in the dining chair, his gaze flickering to the table.

With an exasperated look, Draco said, "Potter, this is your home. You can invite anyone you like."

Smiling, Harry said, "Tomorrow, then, I suppose." Part of him felt foolish for having needed Draco to tell him that he could invite anyone; he hadn't ever had to fit into someone else's life before, not like this.

When he'd wandered around the Manor, trying to work out how he fitted in there, Harry had often thought that he could deal with it, but it just might take a little bit of time. Under the circumstances, he didn't want to seem too uncomfortable, either – not when he knew Draco would, through whatever means, attempt to re-shape everything in order to keep Harry happy. 

Having got used to Draco's lead, he was feeling less than certain of his own ability to make decisions. He hadn't discussed that with Draco yet, as he had been struggling to determine why he was feeling more like a guest than an occupant of the house. Whenever Draco had offered for them to live somewhere else, Harry had tried to be reassuring, tried to make it clear that he had no intention of changing their living arrangements just because he was finding it difficult, despite his former comfort with the house, to feel like it was home. And his comfort hadn't changed, per se, but Draco was the master of that house, not Harry.

"Whenever you like. I have no engagements in the near future. Or would you prefer me not to be there?"

Harry directed a look that said 'you can't be serious' at him, and asked, "Do you really need me to answer that?" He paused. "Draco, I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want you there. I've told you this before." And, more to himself, he added, "I might need you there, really…"

"Then I will be there. But I would have understood if you preferred to see him without me there to intimidate him."

Harry laughed. "I don't know what to expect from him," he said. Considering, he added, "And I don't know Millicent."

"You're not missing much. She'll have him well in hand, though, I expect." At length, Draco added, "Unless you object, I'll invite my mother to join us. Shacklebolt will be with her, of course, but she'll want to see Bulstrode again."

Shocked, Harry asked, "Sh- she wouldn't mind? I don't want to interfere with her and Kingsley…"

"You won't be. I'd have to sit with them anyway, or Mrs Prout would. Or Mrs Dawlish."

"Alright," Harry said, smiling. "Thanks."

Draco frowned again. "You don't need to thank me for things like that."

Harry shrugged, dismissing the statement.

"Potter, this is your home."

"I know." Harry flushed.

"You don't have to ask permission to have visitors. You can fill it with Weasleys with impunity. Well, up to a point."

Chuckling, Harry said, "I wouldn't do that to you."

Draco smiled. "No, you wouldn't. But the point is that you could."

"I'll Floo Andromeda, then. She sent an owl yesterday, and I'd like to see Teddy."

Draco nodded. "They'll be pleased to see you up and about again."

"Teddy just wants to play," Harry said with a faint hint of amusement. "Tomorrow should be interesting, then." Standing, he kissed Draco, letting his fingers linger against pale skin, before he stepped back.

Draco smiled. "Quite likely. Don't tire yourself on it."

"I won't," Harry said, laughing, and turning toward the door.

When Harry reached the door, he stopped and turned to face Draco, an idea occurring to him. "Oh, shall I ask if Andromeda and Teddy would like to stay for dinner?"

"If you like."

"Alright," Harry said and closed the door as he left the room.

After composing a short invitation to Dudley and Millicent to morning tea, Harry threw a handful of Floo powder in the grate and contacted Andromeda. He felt strange with the magical flames licking his head, and was happy to hear that Teddy and Andromeda would be able to join them in the afternoon, though they already had plans for dinner. When he emerged from the Floo room, Draco had already finished his lunch and the dining table had been cleared, and Harry, wanting to share the news of his new wand with Hermione, since she'd been urging him to practice with his old, headed to her suite.

Draco had arranged rooms for Hermione on the first floor in the east wing, which was at the opposite end of the house from where their room was. He took his time to get there, trying not to overtax his leg, using his stick as needed, and when he finally arrived, walked into her sitting room.

"Hermi—" He stopped, his eyes settling on his oldest friend snogging Krum. It took them a moment to realise they weren't alone before they pulled away from one another. Hermione's face was flushed brilliantly, and Krum maintained that moody look he always had.

"H-Harry," Hermione began, "I didn't—"

"Does Ron know?" he asked immediately, interrupting her.

Stammering some explanation, Hermione tried to get Harry to listen, but he didn't want to hear what she had to say. There was a hard ball of tension in his stomach, and he turned around, closing the door as he headed back to the bedroom. Sympathy for Ron washed over him, and he pulled his wand from his sleeve as he arrived at the corridor to the bedroom.

"I'm going to have a lie down," he said after summoning his Patronus, his irritation obvious in his tone. He directed the peacock off to Draco and closed the door firmly, then took a seat on the bed.

His thoughts had barely begun to sort themselves, when Draco Apparated into the room.

"What's happened?" 

"It's... nothing, really. It's none of my business."

"It's distressed you, whatever it is. Are you going to tell me, or do I need to interrogate the entire household?" he asked, scowling.

Draco's words shouldn't have surprised Harry, but they did. It was still a strange feeling to know that Draco cared so much for his state of mind that he would even say something like that. Harry hoped, for everyone's sake, that nothing ever happened to him that put him out of Draco's reach. The feeling in his bones that said the person responsible would meet a horrible fate was not one he wanted to ignore.

"It's..." Harry sighed. "I'm not distressed... I just— I think Hermione should have told Ron before she and Krum were... as close as they looked when I interrupted them. It's not important. Not everyone feels the same way I do. It's fine. Surprised me, really. I didn't think they were that... ah... close yet."

Draco's eyebrows rose.

And then something Harry had tried to push to the back of his mind and forget about surfaced quickly in his thoughts. "Oh, bollocks. That's why…" He ran his hand through his hair, uncomfortable.

"Why what?" 

Harry mumbled, "I kissed Hermione." His expression became a grimace. "Before you took over my care. The morning after St Mungo's, I came downstairs and she was crying. So I sat with her and, with everything that had just happened to me, well, neither one of us really stopped it. Things must have been going pear-shaped for them for a while."

"Years, I would think," Draco said, after a long pause, in which Harry wished he could see what was going on inside Draco's head.

Harry shook his head, not liking that he'd just admitted to kissing Hermione. "She needs to tell him, then," he said, his voice like broken glass. After everything with Ginny, Harry's feelings on honesty had changed a bit, and he didn't like that Hermione, honest and always urging honesty from others, was doing something like that.

"I don't doubt she will. If Krum doesn't do so." He considered. "If, in fact, she hasn't already. Or hasn't tried to on several occasions."

Realising that he'd spoken more harshly than he'd intended, Harry apologised. "I'm sorry. It's not my problem. I just— I've been in Ron's place."

Draco sighed and took a seat on the bed. "No you haven't. Believe me. You've never been a neglectful, incomprehending, resentful husband. You never had a wife grossly incompatible with you but too set on making the impossible happen to call it off." He shook his head. "Their situation is entirely different. Weasley needs some pretty, conformable little wife who will adore him and admire him, and not outshine him, and pander to his every whim, and not be inclined to disagree with his mother. He was never going to get that with Granger."

Harry turned to look at Draco, listening carefully.

"Granger needs a husband who will take pride and delight in her intellect, admire what he doesn't understand, and be delighted to be the centre of her attention, but perfectly contented to accept whatever she can spare from whatever she's reading in the meantime. She was never going to have that with Weasley."

Wondering how the hell Draco knew so much about Ron and Hermione, just from the little interaction they'd had in the past few months, Harry really thought about what Draco had said. Krum had done exactly what Draco had said Hermione needed back in the fourth year, and Harry _thought_ he remembered her seeming delighted by Krum’s attentions. And he also remembered how Ron had been with Lavender. It made sense, and Harry wondered what Draco would say _he_ needed, based on what Draco had said about Harry's friends.

"You're right," Harry said.

Draco rolled his eyes. "You seem to be surprised."

"No, I was just wondering how you would assess my needs," Harry said, laughing to hide his nerves.

Draco gave him a serious look. "You need a... husband who will look after you, because nobody ever has. Somebody who will recognise and respect your strength, and devote himself to ensuring that you never need to deploy it again, unless by your own free choice. You need somebody who will prize _you_ , rather than your name or your vaunted achievements." Draco stopped and cleared his throat in discomfort. "You need somebody who will need you as much as you need him, because you must be an equal in your relationship."

Harry smiled, unable to hide his recognition of the declaration in Draco's words. He moved closer to Draco, settling beside him.

"You need somebody who can learn when to stand before you and shield you from the world, and when to stand behind you and wait for you to disarm it yourself," Draco was saying, his attention firmly fixed on the wall. "You need someone who is willing to die for you, or kill for you, but who will ultimately accept your hand on his rein. You need someone who will make you the... core of his universe, because you'll never make yourself it, or understand that you could, or should." 

When he'd finished speaking, Draco looked like he was about ready to flee for the second time that day, and Harry, for the simple pleasure of enjoying his mouth against Draco's, grabbed his face and pressed their lips together.

"And what do you need?" Harry asked, pulling back to look at Draco.

With a surprised expression, Draco said, "You."

"You have that. And I have everything I need." Reaching up, Harry ran his fingers over Draco's face as though he was a blind man.

Draco smiled.

"I'm your core, but... you're my universe. The air I breathe, the earth when I can't – and couldn't... stand," Harry said.

Taking hold of Harry's head, Draco kissed him again, at length. Harry knew Draco didn't do well with emotional situations, and it wouldn't be long before he did get up and leave. Breathing heavily, Harry broke away from the kiss before he lost himself and wouldn't let Draco go. He slid his arms around Draco's neck and said softly into Draco's ear, "I think I'll watch a film and read the books from Luna after. You'll be in the library, yeah?"

It was obvious Draco was torn on whether he wanted to go or stay. "It's fine," Harry said with a reassuring smile, hoping Draco realised that Harry could tell he was ready to leave. "I know that wasn't... You don't like to talk about it."

Moving away from Draco, Harry stood up and put the top DVD - _The Crow_ \- in the player, and, after arranging a few pillows in the middle of the bed, lay down on his side. He pressed the buttons on the remote, not ignoring Draco, but not demanding that he remain where he was, either. Eventually, after Harry started the film, Draco stood up and situated himself behind Harry on the bed, an arm around his waist, his face in Harry's hair.

Draco had a calming effect on Harry, and he'd found he was able to stay awake during films if he was alone or watching with someone else, but he invariably nodded off if Draco was with him. Unless Draco chose to ask him loads of questions, anyway. And this was a film that Draco apparently wanted to question everything in, because he fired them off every few minutes. Harry found that he really didn't mind lying there with his eyes closed, listening to Draco's steady breathing and his random comments or inquiries.

"Well, that's an inefficient way of doing it."

Automatically, Harry replied, "Not everyone's as clever as you are," having not even seen what Draco was referring to.

He felt Draco's tongue against his neck, and smiled, as another comment followed. Harry was able to drift in and out of wakefulness, until Draco began making comments about ghosts – that caught his attention. In his daze of sleep, he had heard Draco say something that gave him a flare of hope that it might be possible to see his parents, but Draco explained what he'd meant and Harry realised he'd misheard. 

The film took place around Hallowe'en, and it stirred old memories in Harry, and more curiosity, wondering if Draco, so steeped in tradition, did anything special. Of course Hallowe'en had a strong meaning for Harry, considering that was night his parents had been killed. "What do you do for Hallowe'en?"

"Hmm?" Draco huffed. "Nothing like this, I can tell you that much. It's usually a very quiet day, actually. We have breakfast together. Visit family… things. The monuments. The gallery. Visit relatives."

Every year since the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had gone to visit his parents' graves on Hallowe'en. Ginny had been supportive for the first few years, but she'd grown tired of it, as though it was a burden to share that private moment with Harry and one of the only physical reminders of their lives. But he hoped he'd be able to share that with Draco, even if for the ten or fifteen minutes he usually spent just sitting in the grass with a hand on each grave, thinking. "I didn't go to Godric's Hollow last year… and I'd like you to come with me."

Harry could feel the nod behind him. "I would be privileged," Draco said.

Harry nodded and sighed happily, closing his eyes again, ignoring Draco's continued incredulity at the film. 

After the film had ended, Harry rolled over and wrapped his arm around Draco, pulling him close. He was comfortable; but that was interrupted when a house-elf arrived with a soft _pop_. Harry turned over and looked at the elf.

"Mister Ron Weasley is waiting for Harry Potter in the yellow morning room."

"Thank you, uh— sorry, I don't know your name."

"That will be all, Flitter," Draco interposed. "Tell Weasley that Master Harry—" a tingle rippled across Harry's spine,"—will be with him shortly. Serve him the good Madeira."

The elf disappeared and Harry looked at Draco. "Do the house-elves take callers to rooms based on their moods?"

"Not generally, no," Draco replied, looking slightly shifty.

Not wholly convinced by Draco's reply, Harry said, "Will you come with me? I know you aren't fond of Ron, but… I'd appreciate it."

If Ron was in a foul mood, which Harry suspected, given what he'd seen earlier between Hermione and Krum, and Ron's absence from the Manor since he'd started helping George at the shop, he didn't want to deal with it alone; and he didn't have to. Not with Draco in his life. Draco might not deal with emotions very well, but he was supportive in his own way, and Harry appreciated that, more than he felt he could ever demonstrate. 

"Stop asking absurd questions," Draco responded. 

Sitting up, Harry stretched, then grabbed his wand – Draco's old wand – and wrapped his arms around Draco. In an instant, the smooth shift that Draco's skill accorded them left them standing at the door to the yellow morning room. Harry released his hold reluctantly as Draco opened the door and stood aside for Harry to enter the room. What he saw made him stop, mid-step, before continuing to the sofa.

To Be Continued…


	35. Chapter 35

Beta’d by the lovely Romany.

****

Chapter 35: Discovering Normality

Ron perched on the edge of the sofa. Elbows on his knees, he had his face buried in his palms like a theatre mask, a sound like too much liquid being sucked through a straw muffled by his large fingers. Apparently having noticed the sound of two pairs of feet against the floor, Ron’s face snapped up as though commanded by an unseen rein. His eyes flashed with a familiar darkness, his voice cold as he demanded, “What the hell is he doing here?”

Draco interposed mildly, “I live here, too,” and crossed to the window seat, picking up a book en route. 

Harry took a seat on the opposite sofa. There was enough distance between them that Harry felt certain he’d have enough time to react should Ron do something stupid in a fit of pique. 

“Everything alright, Ron?” The question was hesitant, as Harry already knew the answer; Ron’s bearing of a wounded animal spoke volumes as to his current state of mind, and Harry had no idea what direction this conversation was about to take.

“No, everything isn't bloody alright! Everything's all wrong!”

“What, um, happened?” Harry prodded.

“Ask your boyfriend!” Ron yelled.

“What? What are you talking about?” Harry demanded, his gaze flickering toward Draco. Perfectly aware of the circumstances, from both Hermione’s and Ron’s perspective, Harry, after listening intently to Draco’s comments only a few hours prior, believed that the marriage had been falling apart for much longer than either of his friends wanted to admit. Harry didn’t believe it was Draco’s fault; steps had been taken, Harry thought, to lift the curtain of denial; but he didn’t think there was anything malicious in Draco’s intent. In fact, he had to admit he had no problem with Draco attempting to give his friends a reason to be happy again. Harry had grown tired of watching them court disaster for the last few months and being put in the middle. When he and Ginny had had problems, Harry had held onto the handle of the broomstick through the torrent of her resentment and had made it through many times on his own.

“Him! That blond prat by the window! Mr ‘I Live Here Too’! Well, so does Mr ‘World Famous, Wife-Stealing Seeker’! Mr ‘Ve Haff No Familial Traditions, Herm-own-ninny’!” It was a poor impersonation of Krum’s accent; Krum had actually got better over the years, Harry had to admit. He was even saying Hermione’s name properly now. “Mr ‘My-Mother-Does-Not-Speak-English’!” Ron continued mocking. “She wants a fucking divorce, Harry!”

In the present circumstances, Harry felt it best to give Ron a way to vent his anger and grief, rather than give him cause to stew on it. Ron didn’t favour spirits, but Harry knew that if he indulged, Ron would, too; and since Harry knew Draco would look after him, he felt no compunction in getting Ron so drunk that he would cry out his frustration, sleep it off, and then start putting the pieces back together on his own.

“Ron, calm down. You’re going to have to explain it a little better than that if you’re going to blame Draco. How about a drink?”

The sofa moaned in protest as Ron collapsed against it, panting. Calm, Harry called for Kreacher, and before his creaking voice could finish the formalities, Harry ordered Firewhisky and glasses to be brought to them. 

The same elf that had told them Ron was there – _Flitter_ , Harry committed to memory – appeared with what looked like half the drinks cabinet and enough glassware to equip Hogwarts.

“Divorce?” Harry asked for clarification, a drink appearing on the table next to him. When Ron’s appeared, he snatched it up in his freckled hand, the measure of whisky gone so fast Harry wondered if it had actually been spelled down Ron’s throat.

Glaring, Ron replied, “Yeah. That thing you get when you decide to chuck your husband and get a new model.” 

“Did she say why?” Harry coaxed, sure that the scowl Ron sent toward Draco was just the start of the nocked arrows of blame.

“She says we’re fundamentally incompatible and our differences are irreconcilable and lots of other crap like that. She was fine until we moved in here! It’s his bloody mother! And him! And that Prout woman! Telling her stuff, giving her funny ideas!” In his window, Draco had adopted a statue-like demeanour that Harry suspected reflected his attempt at not laughing. “She’s my wife!” Ron said, his tone sour and somehow incredulous. Bitterness didn’t suit him.

Harry sat up, his throat burning from the alcohol as he drank from his refilled glass. “Oi!” he exclaimed, defensive of his new family. Not even the creeping feeling of the alcohol could dull his senses enough to accept Ron’s anger toward those in the Manor and all they had done for him. “How do you know she didn’t feel that way before moving in here? Did you ever ask her?”

“Not with Mr ‘I-Vill-Seduce-Your-Wife-With-My-Shitty-English’ standing there! She’d have said something, I know she would. We were fine! We were brilliant! And then we came here and suddenly it’s all ‘Draco says...’ and ‘Eleanor thinks...’ and ‘Narcissa says...’, and then Mr ‘I’m- _So_ -Not-Compensating-With-The-Broom’ turns up – and who the fuck even knew he was best mates with your boyfriend anyway? – and now look what’s happened!

“I’m sorry, mate,” Harry said sympathetically. “Don’t you think it’s for the best, then?”

Ron stared at Harry. “In what fucking world is this ‘the best’? You’re out of your mind!” He leapt from the sofa and began pacing.

“Hermione’s a clever witch, Ron. You know that. If she quoted anything Narcissa, Draco, or Eleanor said, it’s because she’d already thought about it and she was trying to tell you without _you_ going off on one.”

Ron stopped, staring dumbfounded. “I don’t— I wouldn’t—!” He collapsed back onto the sofa. “She’s my wife!” he reiterated. 

“People change,” Harry said.

“Why? I haven't! You haven't! Mum hasn't!”

A sort of choking sound came from Draco, and Harry shook his head, saying, “But I have, Ron.” The loyal part of Harry wanted to defend Ron for his assertion, but it also showed just how much Ron hadn’t been around in the previous months to see the changes he’d gone through; the biggest was sitting in the window seat; and again he was struck by the realisation that Draco had been right: Ron hadn’t changed. Harry assumed that meant Ron thought everyone else hadn’t, either, which was ridiculous, considering Harry’s relationship with Draco. Marrying the Draco Malfoy Harry had attended Hogwarts with would have been categorically impossible. And, he suspected, Draco wouldn’t have wanted to marry the Harry Potter who had attended Hogwarts, either. “And Hermione has, too, in some ways. She’s pregnant, and doesn’t know how to deal with your mum. I mean, sure, she still reads for hours on end and all that, but she grew up. We’re not seventeen any more.”

A familiar feeling of having more success conversing with a brick wall overcame Harry as Ron continued to stare at him.

“She doesn’t... she’s not...” Ron shook his head. “We’d have been fine if she hadn’t come here! Or if _he_ —” he pointed at Draco, “—hadn’t invited _him_!” Then he gestured vaguely in the direction of the door and Krum’s suite and stood so quickly that Harry thought he must have Apparated. In one moment, Ron was staring at Harry, the next, he was advancing on Draco. Moving faster than he had in ages, Harry dropped his stick and put himself between Ron and Draco; his fingers clamped around Ron’s tree-limb thick arm and dug in.

“It’s not Draco’s fault. Did you ever think it might be yours?”

“WHAT?”

“Maybe you didn’t listen, or care enough. Or maybe you did, but it just wasn’t the way she needed. Or maybe you just didn’t notice things. Your heart’s in the right place, mate, but how well do you really know what she needs? Have you even asked her what she needs?” Harry stood firm, a twitch away from going for his wand. If Ron and Hermione’s marriage had been as strong as Ron seemed to think, Krum’s presence shouldn’t have upset things as much as it had. Draco had no control over their emotions, and Ron needed to understand that. Making himself an active threat against Draco, though, was a bad idea; Harry hated being forced to choose between his fiancé – who Harry chose – and his best mate. But Ron had always done that; his loyalty had always been absolute, until he separated himself from Harry completely out of anger or jealousy.

“SHE’S MY WIFE!” Ron shouted.

“And that doesn’t mean she should be unhappy!” Harry tried to reason with Ron.

“She can’t leave me! She can’t!”

“Why not? You haven’t been living together for nearly a month. How many times have you come to see her?”

“I… She knows I’ve been busy!” Ron’s face grew crimson with shame.

“She’s having your son! And you’re ‘busy’? So, you don’t check on her or anything?”

“I’ve Flooed every day!” Ron’s expression darkened. “And half the time she’s not been there, or she’s said she’s busy.” His gaze fixed on Draco. “You did this! You’ve always hated me and you did this!” Ron’s shoulders stiffened and he lumbered forward, ready to bowl Harry over to get to Draco.

Instinctively, Harry reached for his wand, pointing it at Ron’s chest. “Back off!” he growled, unrepentant in the face of Ron’s expression of absolute betrayal; Harry could see where the fabric of Ron’s robes flexed around the tip, feel where it pressed against Ron’s sternum. 

“Draco _tried_ to help you, you idiot, and you can’t even see it! He didn’t _have_ to invite Hermione to stay when you were assigned here, but he did!”

“He brought that fucking Bulgarian here!”

Draco spoke up then, his tone remarkably non-confrontational, given Ron’s behaviour and their history. “I am entitled to friends, Weasley.”

“Are you going to blame me next?” Harry demanded, his leg twitching uncomfortably. His attention never shifted from Ron. “For being poorly? For you having to be here because of the reporters? For you having to do your bloody job?”

Ron looked devastated by Harry’s questions. “No! What the fu—? No! You’re my best mate!” And the dam of Ron’s emotions finally broke, his eyes filling with tears, his voice sounding as though he was being strangled. “You’re my best mate, and she’s my best mate, and she’s leaving me and you’re... you’re with him and I don’t know what the fuck I’ve done wrong!” Ron collapsed against the sofa and buried his face in his hands again. “I don’t know how to fix it. I try and try and I just don’t know what to do!”

Harry felt some degree of relief that Ron had moved away from the more volatile stage of aggression he always went through when grieved; it would only take a few more drinks before he exhausted of blaming others and actually accepted the situation. Once he did, he’d cry, and in the morning, he’d have a slightly more rational mind about his actions.

“Sometimes you just can’t fix things,” Harry said reasonably, as he sat on the sofa again, his wand still drawn. He was glad to be seated again, the tension in his leg slowly easing away. 

Ron lowered his hands from his tear-stained and blotchy face. “But I should be able to. You’re my best mate. She’s my wife. Why can't I fix it?”

“I’ve known both of you for over ten years, and no matter how poorly you’ve treated one another, she was always your friend. Is-is that what you’re afraid of losing? She can still be your friend and not your wife.” At Ron’s lost expression, Harry knew he was going to have to clarify his meaning. “Just because someone is your best friend, doesn’t mean they’re the best for you.”

“But she is,” Ron said mulishly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught Draco roll his eyes and chose to ignore it. His thoughts moved to what Draco had said earlier. “Do you remember how Krum used to watch Hermione while she read?”

Ron snorted. “Yeah. Like a stalker, or something.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the childish expression on Ron’s face. “Maybe he just liked watching her read. Took pleasure in her pleasure. What do you do when she reads?”

“Er…” Ron replied, his expression blank. 

“Go on, then,” Harry urged.

“Go flying sometimes? Or read a magazine,” he said, his flush darkening. “I used to go to Mum's sometimes. Or yours.”

“Did you ever ask her what she was reading?”

“Yeah, of course I did! I talked to her all the time!”

“Did she ever say anything?”

“‘Go away’ mostly,” Ron said, truculent.

Harry sighed and Ron scowled. “And what about your family? Did you ever take Hermione’s side with your mum?”

“Mum was right!”

“What's right for your mum isn't right for Hermione.” Harry finished his drink, feeling his face grow warmer, his patience thinning. 

“It wasn’t about Hermione!” Ron threw back another drink.

“You’re telling me that you think Hermione – the one who is actually pregnant – shouldn’t have a choice, with her husband’s support, on how she wants to do things? You were supposed to be her family, Ron. You and her, and the baby when it’s born. Your mum isn’t your wife.”

And like he’d been blown by a strong gust of wind, Ron appeared off balance for a moment, then said, “Of course she has a choice! And I support her! But she won't listen!”

“Do you hear what you’re saying? Saying she won’t listen but that she has a choice is..." Harry shook his head. “You aren’t supporting her if you demand that she do everything your mum says, just because she’s had more children.” In disbelief at Ron’s words, Harry downed his drink. It obligingly refilled for him again. And Ron followed suit, the amber liquid gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Hermione doesn't want someone to tell her what to do. Any more than you do.”

“I don’t tell her what to do!”

“You expect her to do everything the way your mum did, though.”

“But she won’t listen, and Mum knows what she's talking about!”

With all he had drunk so far, Harry had to exercise every bit of control over his words and actions. He tightened his fingers around his glass, and made sure not to knock his stick over.

Ron was his best mate, but Harry couldn’t believe some of what he was hearing. That Ron seemed hell-bent on ignoring Hermione’s views – because they weren’t his mother’s – in her own pregnancy was baffling.

“For her, maybe. Not for Hermione.”

“She just wants to read her stupid books! They can’t tell her what it’s _really_ like to have seven kids! Mum knows that stuff already; she knows what works and she knows what’s just stupid!”

Harry stopped for a moment, wondering if Ron was just stating the obvious with his mother having given birth to seven children, or if Ron had intended for him and Hermione to have seven children. Much as he liked Ron and Hermione, he couldn’t see them with one child, let alone seven. “Is your mum a Healer?”

Looking startled, Ron said, “You know she isn’t.”

“Right, so Hermione should be listening to her Healer, who is trained in that sort of thing.”

“Malfoy’s a bloke!” 

Harry blinked for a moment, his alcohol fogged mind catching up. _Draco’s Hermione’s Healer now…_ Turning his gaze to Draco, who feigned oblivion, Harry then looked at Ron again.

“Mum’s had seven of us, and she says half of what the Healers tell you is rubbish.”

Harry sighed. “I like your mum a great deal – you know that – but... what worked for her isn’t going to work for Hermione.”

“But it should! And she wants to call him something stupid. I don’t see why we can’t have Arthur Marcus, after our dads. Or Ethelred. That’s a good Weasley name.”

“Your son will be a Weasley, but it’s her son, too. Look, I’m not saying you can’t have tradition, but make it yours. That’s what we’re doing,” Harry said, gesturing between himself and Draco. A deep flush spread on Harry’s face at that; he wasn’t sure he should have said anything about that to Ron.

“But it is mine! She just won’t— won’t even think about it!”

“Exactly! It’s _yours_. Not shared, not yours and Hermione’s. Did you ask her what she wanted, or did you just demand that she do it your way?”

“I asked her if she’d thought about it, and she said no, so Mum told her what we always do, and she just said no and wouldn’t listen any more!” Ron scowled again. “But it doesn't matter anyway, does it? She wants a divorce and what Hermione wants, Hermione always has to get.” He knocked back a double Firewhisky, his glass filling again in time for him to swallow it just as quickly. His eyes were starting to slant at the corners, the whites cracked with red and the blue of his irises glassy. Every movement was like watching a boat on the sea.

“You can still be… friends,” Harry said, slurring.

“Huh. She didn't want to live at the Burrow, so we didn't. She didn't want to live in Diagon, so we didn't. She didn't want to go to the World Cup on our honeymoon, so we didn't.”

Harry couldn’t help laughing, even with Ron’s injured expression. “Sorry. But, Ron, honestly. The World Cup? For your… honeymoon? Hermione doesn’t even _like_ Q-Quid-ditch.”

“I don’t like museums! We went to fourteen!” Ron knocked another double back. “I couldn’t have a Crup because of Crookshanks. We didn’t even try for a baby until last year.”

“Having kids ’s a big decision,” Harry said, not looking at Draco.

“Can’— Can’t have Seamus and Dean over for the weekend any more ’cos she says they’re too noisy.”

“Well, they are.”

“They’re my friends!”

“’Ermi’ne’s your wife.”

“Not for long. Huh.”

“You live with her. Not Dean and Seamu’.” Harry shrugged, his apathy growing with the warmth of the alcohol. “Y’know what I mean.”

“Not my fault she hasn' got friends.”

“She has!”

Ron threw back another double.

“Jus’ you an’ Luna an’ _him_ —” Ron cast a venomous look at Draco, “—an’ his mum an’ that Prout woman.” He cradled another double. “Huh. She didn’ even keep in touch with Lavender.” Harry snorted. “Or Parvati.”

“Wonder why,” Harry said under his breath. He cleared his throat. “Point is, maybe she’s righ’.”

“’Snot my fault I’m not ’n international Seeker.”

Harry cleared his throat again. “That hasn’ got anything to do with it. Y’know ’Ermi’ne doesn’t care ’bout—” He waved his hand to indicate his point, the words disappearing as quickly as their drinks.

Ron threw back another drink. “No, ’s too busy with her no-nose in a stinkin’ old book.”

Harry saw Draco twitch. “Draco likes to read.”

“Malfoy plays the sodding violin naked while you toss off!” Ron yelled, seemingly incensed by the comparison.

“Cello,” Harry said, flushing.

“Huh. ’Mione doesn’ do anything like— wha’?”

Harry cleared his throat. “’S a cello. Not— a… violin”

Until his eyes became slits, Ron glowered. “Wha’s it matter? ’S not the point. Point is…” he wavered, “…Point is ’Mione doesn’ do anythin’ like that. Not ’ny more. Huh. You’re shagging _Malfoy_ an’ you get more’n I do, an’ he’s a prissy tosser, too.” Ron slurped at his drink messily. “Bet he wouldn’t go off with some Mr ‘I’m-A-Quidditch-Player’ git. Huh. Sittin’ watching’ ’er read, li-like he likes it. Watchin’ you breathe all-all the time. ’Snot right. Not lettin’ people in.” He slurped at his drink again. “Huh. Wouldn’ even let ’Mione in.”

“Wha’re you on abou’?” Harry asked, unable to make sense of Ron’s broken attempts at continued blame. 

“Bloody Ma-Malfoy,” Ron mumbled into his glass. “’Sall his fault.”

“Draco didn’ make ’Ermi’ne – or you – d’ anythin’.”

Ron continued to mumble into his glass. Harry caught Hermione’s name before Ron started crying again.

“Y’can start a-again, R’n.”

Ron looked up hopefully. “Y-yeah? Y’think ’Mione’d…?” 

“Wi’ someone els’. Jus’ ’cause you get divorced, doesn’ mea’ you won’ be frien’s. You were always better… frien’s.”

“I lo-love ’er!” Ron began to sob again, his drink spilling to the floor, leaving a dark stain spreading on the carpet.

Harry stood up unsteadily and took Ron’s glass from him, placing it on the table, then pointed his wand at the mess. The wood twitched in his hand, and he watched as it flew across the room and landed in Draco’s open hand.

Draco shook his head and mouthed, ‘house-elf’. Harry smiled stupidly, the slow tide of arousal beginning to creep over him. His attention snapped back to Ron, who was demanding of the world at large what he was going to do without ‘his ’Mione’.

“Wha’ev’r you want t’ do.”

“I jus- jus’ wan’ my ’Mione!” Ron stopped for a moment. “’M gon-gon’ go find ’er, ’n tell ’er, an’ she’ll have to-to come back!”

Harry’s head felt like a shoal of fish was racing around in it as he shook his head. “No. Jus’ stay there.”

Ron tried to heave himself to his feet, bellowing, “’M— ’Mione!” He finally stood.

Harry again placed himself in front of Ron. “Jus’ si’ down. You’re not ’n ’ny fit state to talk t’ ’nyone.”

Ron lurched toward the door. Draco stood, and Ron froze, then Draco twitched Harry’s wand at Ron, saying firmly, “ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ”

Ron passed out, hovering in the air, and Harry moved back to his sofa, picking up his stick from where it had fallen. That was a mistake. His brain felt like it was going to pour out onto the floor.

Head swimming, Harry looked at Draco from where he sat on the sofa, his imagination, aided by inebriation, feeding the desire that moved through him faster than any Portkey he’d ever known. His eyes roamed over Draco’s tall frame, back ramrod straight and elegant as he stared at Ron’s floating form. 

“Flitter, put Weasley to bed in one of the state rooms. Keep a watch over him, and give him one of my hangover potions in the morning. On no account let him go anywhere near Miss Granger’s suite or Mr Krum’s.” With a flick of his wand, Draco deposited Ron on the sofa and put both wands in one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. “That always gives me a headache.”

Standing, Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, shuddering slightly as his already-hardening cock pressed against Draco’s body. “Wha’?” he asked. Conspicuously unsteady, he felt a stable arm move around his shoulder.

“Simultaneous casting. I can’t do it at all with anything much more complex than that.” Draco shot a look at Harry that seemed to be distorted by fog. “How drunk are you?” he asked.

“A bi’,” Harry said, laughing. His entire face was hot and he imagined steam and bubbles rising from cool water.

“Then we’re walking back to the bedroom. If I smell vomit, I’ll throw up myself." 

Harry hummed his agreement, his fingers already working at the long line of buttons of Draco’s robes. When Draco began to steer them out of the room, Harry reluctantly released his hold, a victory won over four buttons at Draco’s collar. The door closed behind them, with Harry in the lead, and Draco at his back. Everything looked the same; Harry wasn’t even sure what floor they were on, let alone how far away from their bedroom they were. It was too far. Arousal slammed against Harry like a stormy sea against a cliff, and each brush of his arm against Draco’s as they followed the too-long corridor was like a taunt, demanding they touch longer, harder. It demanded more intimacy than those brief caresses like a debt requiring payment; and the wild whip of compulsion lashed at Harry until his stride became slower and all he had was the impulsive drive to press Draco into the nearest wall, make Draco’s self-control swerve and break down from pleasure. 

When he pushed his tongue into Draco’s mouth, he realised he’d actually done what he had been thinking. A crash of hard chests, friction and heat, rose between them like dust, a cloud that continued to envelop them both. Breath couldn’t get between them. Their chests collided with each inhale, a staggered drum beat that made Harry’s blood pump faster. Harry’s knuckles scraped against the wall as he tightened his grip around Draco’s neck, the sound fading behind ragged battles for oxygen that barely filled their lungs. They couldn’t get any closer together; but Harry tried, his hips rolling and cock grinding into Draco’s as they stood in the empty corridor. 

The only sounds, driven into Draco’s mouth, were Harry’s moans, swallowed as though a delicacy. Impatience, dissatisfaction at the minor contact of their bodies, made Harry feel like a wild animal caged. Gasping at the hard press against him, Harry’s mouth broke away from Draco’s. He had to taste Draco, had to feel Draco; and already thinking of being on his knees, looking up at Draco through half-lidded eyes as he sucked that fucking fantastic cock, his mouth began to water. Swallowing quickly, Harry leaned forward again, running his nose from Draco’s throat up of the V of his jaw, to his chin. He nipped at the protruding bone, and looked into those grey eyes.

Circumstances no longer dictated that Harry ignore what he was feeling. Draco seemed amenable to Harry’s clumsy and drunken advances, his eyes never moving, just a slow blink of definite interest at Harry’s actions hiding his irises. That look itself was like a pair of hands reaching out and pulling Harry closer; he knew the hold against his hips hadn’t moved, but it bloody well felt like it. 

Harry’s hand felt heavy against the nape of Draco’s neck, pulling their mouths together. He was greedy, a Niffler searching for treasure as his teeth brushed against Draco’s lips, and he bit down, holding that pale skin, sucking on it. Compulsion drove his fingers down Draco’s chest; and he finally released his hold on Draco’s lip. The skin, when Harry looked at it, was swollen, darker.

“Damn’ buttons,” Harry muttered, his hands moving along Draco’s chest. The soft fabric of Draco’s robes caressed his palms; the heat of his body beneath Harry’s hands was brilliant. And if his fingers trembled against the small obstacles, Harry didn’t notice. His pursuit was single-minded. Getting his fingers against Draco’s skin and his mouth around Draco’s cock was all that mattered. Draco had stopped Harry every time he’d tried to fulfil that particular fantasy of shoving Draco into the nearest surface and sucking him. Harry might have been careless with his health before, but he was capable of knowing when he’d gone too far.

Working his way down Draco’s body, Harry looked around, knowing the corridor was not a good place to suck Draco off. There was a door to his left, and he dragged Draco toward it, his stick under his arm. With Draco’s back to the door, Harry pushed his lips against Draco’s again and fumbled for the knob. He felt the carved texture of it and turned, leading them through as it opened. He could just imagine what Draco would look like pinned to the wall, his robes open, underthings around his ankles, Harry between his legs, on his knees. If he could have his entire body against Draco’s, rutting and rabid, he would. Already his mind was conjuring images of sweat-slick bodies moving against one another, the delicious weight of Draco against him, or him against Draco, until they were both sticky with come.

They moved quickly; Harry forced their momentum forward until Draco hit a wall. Hard. Harry’s mouth fell open as he gasped at the pleasure lancing through him at the impact. His stick clattered to the floor as he dropped it, needing both hands for what he wanted to do. There was nothing that would quiet the roar of determination he felt, not after having been denied the pleasure of taking what he wanted physically since they had become lovers. Everything they had done had been on Draco’s terms, and that was no longer acceptable for Harry. He desired Draco as much as he felt desired in return, and wanted to prove that. One day he’d have Draco’s inhibition in tatters, watch as it drifted away at his hand. 

A spell would have worked perfectly well to free Draco of his robes, but Harry wanted to undo every button. It was like opening a gift, one just for him. The smart breeches and underthings were just enticement, the outer robe the bow holding it all together. Harry’s fingers trembled, his heart beating so fast he though it might break through his chest, as he worked at the little round barriers. After what felt like an age, he finally got to the last one, the fine cloth parting around Draco’s chest and hanging in elegant folds.

“’M gettin’ on my knees t’ suck your cock. Been wan’in’ t’ do this for ages,” Harry said, pushing the fabric away from Draco’s hips. 

“Potter, let’s just get back to the bedroom; we can—”

“Shut it,” Harry growled. The feeling of Draco’s erection as he pressed his hand against it was enough to make his legs quiver. Every bit of that hard flesh was for him, because of him, his hands, his mouth, his body. It was intoxicating, more so than the Firewhisky already coursing through him.

“You’re too drunk; you’ll hurt yourself.”

“’M no’ goin’ to break, Dr’co,” Harry said, sinking to his knees with his hands on Draco’s hips. The musky scent of arousal rolled off Draco. Harry could feel the caress against his brain as he buried his face in Draco’s groin. The cloth brushing against his face was an irritant, one he needed to get rid of. Now. Harry told himself he could stop if he grew too tired, could prove he was capable of making a decision about his own health. Risks were just a part of daily life; but Harry didn’t see this as a risk. An opportunity, yes. 

With every inhale, there was a dizzying wave of heat that accompanied the scent as it moved through his nose and registered in his mind. It shot to his stomach, then spread out like ripples in a disturbed pond. He yanked at the laces on Draco’s hip, the cloth tangling around his fingers as he worked.

Breathing out, he covered his teeth with his lips, and ran them over the raised garment. 

“Potter, we have to go somewhere else.” The firm pressure of Draco’s hand around Harry’s shoulder didn’t deter him. Harry just shrugged it off, still working at the damned laces, an impatient whimper tickling his throat as he finally got the ties undone enough to pull the last obstacle to Draco’s cock down. The fabric caught against Draco’s tense legs, but Harry wasn’t giving up. He wanted the same thing, would display himself wantonly, remain still but for the quivering legs and hitching breaths, as possessive eyes caressed his skin. And he wanted to feel Draco’s teeth tearing at his body, be shoved into a wall, and nip back, giving as good as he got.

“Potter, we’re in the gallery!” 

Hearing Draco’s words made no difference. Not even his hands against Harry’s shoulders, pulling, stopped him. He groaned in appreciation, and gripped the base of Draco’s cock, his lips parting around the downward curve of its head.

“Potter, we—”

Harry’s tongue curled up as he closed his mouth around Draco’s length, his mouth so wet that it glided in without trouble. The weight, the flavour, was perfect. It lingered, coating his mouth as he sucked, his cheeks hollowing and surrounding Draco completely. The smooth friction teased the inside of Harry’s cheeks; and he slipped lower, that curved head going deeper into his mouth, and sliding down his slick throat. His entire mouth vibrated with a moan of satisfaction and triumph at having Draco encased completely. It was a strange feeling, his throat undulating quickly at the unfamiliar pressure. He stopped breathing, his heart jumping wildly in his chest, and inhaled deeply through his nose. His senses were assaulted with Firewhisky, Draco, and the undeniable scent of arousal.

Harry withdrew his mouth and slid it down again, his throat capturing Draco, squeezing around him with each convulsive swallow. A strange, strangled exclamation sounded above him, and Harry’s hand dropped to his own erection, rubbing it through his robes. He had to hear that again. The sound of Draco’s pleasure was addictive. It reverberated down Harry’s spine as he continued to work his mouth, his fingers trying to rip the buttons on his own robe open. He didn’t need to get all of them. Just needed enough of them open to wrap his fingers around his shaft and pull. He’d come all over the expensive carpet; it wouldn’t take much. If Draco made that noise again, Harry would be incapable of stopping himself.

There was a solid thump as the back of Draco’s skull hit the wall. Somewhere in his mind, Harry registered that there was quite a bit of noise around them, and not just those he made as he sucked and massaged Draco’s cock. But he ignored it, sucking loudly and moaning against the thickness in his mouth. The texture was soft against his tongue, the back and forth movements slick and hot.

Still fumbling with the buttons, Harry finally got enough of them open to free his cock, the touch a current of electricity that thrummed through him in rapid pulses. He used his free hand to touch Draco, feel the goose bumps that blossomed under the smooth caress from hip to arse. The tail of Draco’s undershirt tickled his wrist as he moved up, searching. He trailed his fingertips along Draco’s lower back, finally ghosting across that spot that made Draco’s hips roll.

Greedy, Harry wanted to drink that, too. He settled for the sudden drive of Draco’s cock deeper into his throat, moaning around the unfamiliar sensation as it stretched to accommodate. Harry loved the feel of the ridges in Draco’s mouth as he was sucked, hot muscles contracting and hugging him until he felt like he’d been Obliviated; and he wanted it to feel that good for Draco. He had none of Draco’s finesse, just wild swipes and reactive swallows: a parched man trying to quench his thirst.

His hand tightened around his own cock reflexively, his hips canting into the firm hold. Squeeze. Release. Tease. The rhythm broke as Harry brushed his fingers against Draco’s lower ribs, then dragged his nails down to tense buttocks. Undulating with the touch, Draco’s hand slid up Harry’s face and through his hair, raking the untamed mess. That flowed through Harry, a flint and tinder touch that blazed just beneath the surface of his scalp. A physical manifestation of the way he felt when Draco said his name. 

Draco’s neglected balls rubbed against Harry’s chin, demanding attention. And Harry wanted to taste them, too, but he was single-minded. His concentration was spread thin enough with the cloudy images in his thoughts to accompany each quick movement of his tongue. The firm pressure of Draco’s fingers shifted, his thumb at the notch of bone at the edge of Harry’s jaw, light caresses moving across the back of his neck, along his hairline. A satisfying prickling feeling ran from the base of his head to crown. And Harry fought the desire to slick his fingers with spit and relish the feeling of Draco’s muscles clamping around him.

Harry moved his unoccupied hand to Draco’s hip to steady himself, the other still stroking along his own shaft. The mounting pulse that ached inside him was slowly becoming more than just the need to release. A creeping burn settled in his thighs as he held himself erect with determination. His eyes flicked upwards, the look on Draco’s face urging him further. The manifestation of Draco’s satisfaction added to the arousal, gave it sharp edges that cut against Harry’s skin and mind. It bled through every stroke and twist of his wrist, his tongue as he alternated tame swipes with more abandoned ones.

Closing his eyes, Harry inhaled, his breath moving across Draco in erratic puffs as he gripped his own cock tighter. A moan ripped through the low hum around them, and Harry stopped his teasing, his mouth opening wide to welcome Draco in again. There was a blunt press at the back of his throat as he drove his lips to the steadying ring his forefinger and thumb made around the base of Draco’s shaft.

Harry groaned, hearing something suspiciously like a whimper above him, followed by another thud against the wall. The muscles in his neck strained against the quick movements that drove his mouth from head to base. Harry’s hand mimicked, only harder, what his mouth was doing around Draco; and with the constant feel of one hand in his hair and one on his face, Harry moved, only one goal in mind. Deliver pleasure, he would, give everything he had to feel the moment come splattered against the inside of his mouth and dripped down his throat. 

The curl of Draco’s fingers against Harry’s face felt like a plea; Harry intended to give exactly what Draco wanted. He craved it, so much that he could close his eyes and let his imagination swirl and grip at him the same way his tongue was against Draco. He sped up the jerks and tugs against his own cock, the sound of his pleasure muted and vibrating against Draco.

Against his cheek, the edge of Draco’s palm rested, his fingers digging into Harry’s temple, and thumb stroking above his lip. Then he moved, outlining Harry’s bottom lip as it protruded around his full mouth, moving to his chin and along his jaw. Encouragement, a command to continue. The touch said everything Harry needed to know, that he’d be getting exactly what he wanted. Draco would get it, too. That rush of everything draining away, nerves igniting and leaving a reminder in the wake of pleasure. Coils of it would wrap around them until the bonds were severed with that blissful eruption of orgasm. All sense of anything apart from that moment was meaningless in the face of that hunger.

There Harry felt that surge of unsurpassable need that made his fingers twitch. His throat contracted around Draco’s cock, a heavy moan drawn from him with every upward stroke. And like the contents of a cauldron reaching boiling point, that twisting and pulling pleasure forced him over the rim. The wet sensation of trailing come moved over his hand; he couldn’t help the sloppy and strangled cry that he released. 

An unintelligible exclamation seemed to reach for his balls and squeeze. Those long fingers against his face tightened again, and a slight tug against his hair signalled Draco’s orgasm. Harry took everything he was given, swallowing. The tension in his neck dissipated slowly as he stopped and withdrew his mouth completely. In the pit of his stomach, there was a tingling that he couldn’t ignore. Seeing Draco above him, his mouth open and breath heavy almost jerked Harry and forced his mouth back to Draco’s prick. He slid his hand from Draco’s hip to the base of his cock, held him steady and ran his lips and cheek across the wet surface. 

Smears of spit and come spread over Harry’s skin, leaving a glistening mark of possession like a wild animal claiming his territory. He’d smell Draco on him for as long as possible; have a reminder of that moment. Lazily he kissed Draco’s cock, his cheek against the head and shaft until his forehead rested against Draco’s hip. Both of them were breathing hard, and he felt Draco’s body slip, moving to the floor as though heated wax until he gracelessly sat with his knees bent, breeches and pants still wrapped around his ankles.

Harry looked up, wide-eyed, his lips heavy and dry all of a sudden. His hand remained around his cock, and he watched as Draco reached out a slightly shaking hand and took hold of Harry’s. Those grey eyes penetrated him like only Draco could, and Harry watched as that tongue darted out against the white fluid slowly dripping from his fingers. The way Draco ate his come always made Harry’s mind reel and careen out of control with impulses to have Draco inside him, be inside Draco; it didn’t matter how or who did what. As long as he was consumed in the sublime rapture of sensation, Harry was happy. He moaned, a vibrant sound that irritated his raw throat. Draco licked every trace of semen from Harry’s hand, his eyes darting to the droplets on the floor. Harry thought for a moment that Draco looked tempted to go after them, too. But he didn’t. Instead, he looked up. 

“Can I take you to bed now?” Draco asked, and Harry’s half-lidded eyes snapped open, meeting that liquid-silver gaze.

“Yes,” he replied, breathless and unable to speak any louder than wind-blown leaves against tarmac. He reached for his stick, which was lying against the floor where he’d dropped it, as Draco gathered Harry close and Apparated them to their bedroom. He held on, not ready to release the steadying hold around him, wasn’t ready to lose that warmth yet.

“Potter, I need you to prepare your mind for a shock,” Draco said. Still dazed, Harry looked up. They began to rise, and Draco towed them toward the bed. “You just sucked me off in front of about seven hundred years of Malfoys. Including my late, unlamented father.”

Heat spread on Harry’s face, and he choked.

“I had probably the most undignified orgasm of my entire life for the edification of the same audience.” Mortified, Harry buried his face against Draco’s chest. They were still moving slowly in the same direction, then Draco dipped, pulling Harry with him. The bed shifted underneath Harry and he pulled back, finally meeting Draco’s eyes. “And then licked you clean,” Draco finished. 

“I quite liked that,” Harry muttered, his voice like scraped skin.

“I noticed.”

“Are you angry?” Harry asked.

“Do I look angry?”

Anger was the furthest from the way Draco looked: debauched and slightly dazed, all of the visible signs having just enjoyed what had been done to him, but not angry. It was the perfect picture of sex and orgasm, to Harry’s mind.

“Well, no... but you said undignified orgasm... and they’re still... you stopped me every other time. Was tired of waiting,” Harry managed, his flush darkening.

And that bloody nostril flare caught Harry’s eye; he hated that. Wounded didn’t fit with debauched. “I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I didn’t. I haven’t.” Harry cleared his throat and began working at his robes, trying to get them off. Having been incapable of really giving anything back to Draco before then, Harry’s shoulders hunched, his lips a pout of defiance. “I’m sorry.” It was a reluctant apology, but one he felt he needed to make.

The buttons on his robes were proving to be difficult to manipulate, and Draco’s hands joined his in pushing them through the little holes. Harry clamped down on the urge to snap that he was capable of going at it alone.

“I’m not. I just don’t want you hurting yourself.”

Another waspish reminder – one that Draco couldn’t always protect him – was imprisoned on his tongue before he’d really piss Draco off. “Not going to hurt myself. I’d never hear the end of it.” Draco muttered something about never being able to forgive himself. “You’re— I need a bath.” And since Harry had nothing but prideful arguments, he refrained from adding that Draco wasn’t responsible for everything he did. It nettled him that Draco seemed reluctant to do anything that would potentially harm Harry without considering Harry’s wants. It was irrational. 

Harry, though he would be reluctant to do it, would admit if something they were doing was too much. But he wanted the chance to do that, rather than suffering the side-effects of Draco’s active conclusion that Harry would hurt himself and not respect his own limits. As much as Harry didn’t want to think about it, their first attempt at sex was probably at the root of Draco’s fear of inadvertently hurting him, which he despised. It was a feeling of distrust that he couldn’t make Draco shake, no matter how much he wanted to. He thought his honesty about that night had helped build trust in him, but it didn’t seem that way. It hurt that after everything, Harry’s trust in Draco seemed absolute, but that it wasn’t reciprocated.

Standing, Harry shrugged his robes off, toed off his shoes, and bent over to remove his socks, then headed for the bathroom. Draco followed, divesting himself of his robes.

With the warmth of the bath and Draco wrapped around him, still slightly inebriated, Harry fell asleep against Draco’s chest. He woke up, blinking rapidly, as Draco carried him to bed. No filters stood between him and his thoughts, his intoxication having faded slightly with his kip in the bath. 

“Draco?”

“Yes?”

Harry hadn’t admitted to Draco that he’d been struggling to work out who he was post-cure. There had never seemed to be an appropriate time, or it would somehow lead to a conversation Harry was certain that Draco didn’t want to have; but he felt the need to express some of the things that had been bothering him. Seeing Ron earlier had reminded him how difficult it was to redefine oneself after major traumas. He thought Draco would understand him, though, so he addressed an issue that had been bothering him for months and had got worse after he’d been cured.

“I-I don’t know what I like any more: food, drinks… things like that.” He paused as Draco laid him in bed, and settled underneath the covers. “I know… I know what I like with you. And… I’m comfortable. Happy. But someone the other things, like books and films and all that, I… I feel sort of lost with.”

Draco frowned. “Lost?”

“Yeah, making up my mind on them. What to read, or watch. Or eat, or drink. Because I don’t know what I like any more.”

Shaking his head slightly, Draco reassured him, “Well, you’ve a lifetime to find out, haven’t you?”

“Mmm,” Harry replied, feeling better for having said it. He snuggled closer to Draco, his fingers spreading to feel as much skin as possible. “You think Ron’ll be alright?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Harry smiled and kissed Draco’s neck, and felt the gentle press of lips against his head. And remembering something Ron had said, Harry sought to reassure Draco. He cleared his throat and said, “What Ron said, about you watching me… I don’t share his opinion.”

“He was raving. Don’t worry about it.”

So Harry didn’t.

**~*~*~*~**

In the morning, Harry woke, feeling nervous about the meeting with Dudley. Draco was already awake and moving around the bedroom when Harry finally stretched and got out of bed to use the loo. After dressing, Harry reached for his walking stick and stopped, noticing it was different. It resembled his new wand in colour, and was very much plain; it struck him as something Draco had done. He offered his thanks, receiving a nod of acknowledgement, as they made to join Narcissa in one of the morning rooms; he smiled to himself as Draco continued to lead them to the first floor. 

There was a copy of the _Prophet_ at the table, and Harry picked it up, wondering what news the still-eager-for-a-story-no-matter-how-false reporters were attempting to make the wizarding world believe this time. A picture of Krum, Harry, and Draco sat on the cover with a headline speculating over who was involved with whom. According to ‘reliable sources’, Krum and Draco were a now a couple. Another source repudiated the first, saying that Harry and Krum were lovers, and another listed Harry and Draco as lovers. Amused and slightly alarmed by the wizarding world’s fascination with his love life, Harry set the paper down and tried to eat something.

Harry found himself on the receiving end of one of Draco’s disapproving looks during their meal. He couldn’t help that uncharacteristic nerves at seeing his cousin made it nearly impossible to eat. Managing one more bite, Harry put his hands up, indicating he couldn’t bear another forkful. He was starting to wonder if it had been a good idea to invite Dudley and Millicent at all, but it was too late for that. 

Once he’d finished eating, Draco ushered Harry from the room and led him to a part of the house he’d not seen before. They arrived at a set of doors, and Draco opened them, allowing Harry to enter before him.

Harry followed until they stepped into a lavish bedroom, and saw his sang de boeuf bowl resting on the same pedestal from their other room; he realised then it must be the master suite and they were relocating now that Harry could get around easily enough on his own. Wide-eyed, Harry surveyed the room. A large four-poster bed with deep blue bedding and curtains sat against the wall, the wood rich and perfectly contrasted to the linens. Due to the lack of space they occupied in the bed they were already sleeping in, Harry mused over the size of the bed and how they’d probably occupy the centre of it, wrapped around one another as always.

He looked around, noticing that the room itself was like a representation of day and nighttime skies. The ceiling was pale like the morning sky, and the hues blended and changed seamlessly down the walls until it reached the dark-blue carpet with silver accents. In a whimsical assessment, he realised it would be like sleeping in midnight. 

Learning the rooms and where everything had been placed took some considerable time, and served as a great distraction. After a shower, that Harry noticed had handrails for his comfort, he stood wrapped in a dressing gown, looking at a door that appeared to open into nothing. Curious where it went, as Draco hadn't shown him through there, he stood at it, since it overlooked the courtyard. He wondered if it might lead back to the bedroom, since there was a passageway that connected the invalid rooms below. Taking a chance, Harry opened the door and walked through, and felt like he'd been flipped upside down and transported like a Portkey as he stepped into an unfamiliar sitting room. Surprised that Draco hadn’t mentioned anything like that, given his over-protective nature, Harry called Flitter to take him back to the bedroom. Once there, he dressed, thinking it might be a good idea to ask Draco if there were any more rooms he needed to be aware of having the same sort of enchantments, before he ended up hurting himself.

Harry stopped in front of one of the many mirrors in the bedroom and looked at himself. Running a hand through his unruly hair, he froze when the door opened and he saw Draco in the doorway. Dressed in arctic grey robes, Draco looked incredible. Layers of cloth in his usual style complemented each other so that he looked like he was draped in water.

Harry turned, a broad smile on his face as Draco approached him.

“Do I need to change?” he asked, aware of looking very plain next to Draco.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco replied, and reached for Harry’s collar. His fingers brushed against Harry’s neck, in what he thought was an affectionate gesture, even if clouded by the excuse to make Harry’s hopeless appearance more presentable. 

“Ridiculous? You look like... royalty. And I know those aren’t your best robes.”

Harry caught Draco’s frown in the mirror as he turned and looked at himself again. 

“What has that to say to anything?”

“It’s just Dudley…”

Draco adjusted the cloth and the way it set on Harry’s shoulders, and Harry quirked his eyebrows at all the fussing. Apparently satisfied, Draco smoothed the fabric down Harry’s back and lingered on his arse. Harry shot him a grin in the mirror just as Draco was stepping away. He retrieved a box from atop the chest of drawers and brought it to Harry.

“I thought you might like this.”

Holding out his hand with his brow furrowed, Harry asked, “What—?”

“It was my great-great-grandfather’s.” Then he considered for a moment. “My _great_ -great-great-grandfather’s.”

Harry opened the box, and inside rested a silver signet ring. Blinking in surprise, his expression shifted to a blank look; he wasn’t sure what it signified. “Draco…” he began, unable to continue. Regardless of its meaning, a smile lit his face. Draco was including him as part of the family with a token.

“It’s not the formal crest, of course. But it should fit you. Shrinking charm.”

“I, uh,” Harry tried, then cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Draco frowned again, and reached out, trying to flatten Harry’s hair. Smiling, Harry realised it would be an inanity to point out his hair was never going to be tame.

“Which… finger? I don’t know these things,” Harry admitted, looking at Draco; he wasn’t sure if it was an engagement ring.

“Little finger of your wand hand. The signet should be on the inside, traditionally. Eustace decided that it was to be kept secret, for some reason; to this day, nobody outside the family has actually seen the design.”

Harry nodded and slipped the ring on his little finger, a slight tingle against his skin as he turned the crest to rest against his ring finger. “Why does it tingle? I mean, what sort of magic is in it?”

A quirk of Draco’s lips indicated his amusement with the question. “Is it cursed, you mean?” The tone was teasing, by his standards. “There’s the Shrinking Charm, of course; a couple of basic protective enchantments, a ward against getting lost… nothing else I can remember offhand.” He looked at Harry for a moment, his expression serious. “Apart from the fact it spits basilisk venom at anyone who approaches the wearer with hostile intent.”

Trying to work out whether Draco was serious or still teasing him, Harry said, “I don’t think you’d cured me just so you could curse me again. Unless you just wanted to take care of me again.”

“You actually believe that it spits basilisk venom, don’t you?” Draco asked, shaking his head, either at Harry’s remark or at his failure to laugh at the suggestion that the ring _might_ be enchanted to do that. “Potter, the only thing that can spit basilisk venom is a basilisk, and amazingly enough, we haven’t got one of those in the cellar. We keep it in the Swiss house.”

Harry recognised from the weakness of the joke that Draco must be nervous, and responded with a perfunctory smile.

“Are you ready, then?” Draco asked.

“I suppose,” Harry replied with a smile. Then he realised he had no idea how he was to make the introductions, or what Draco would deem suitable by way of introduction. “Wait, what am I supposed to say? This is my fiancé and his mother Narcissa?” Lacking social graces, Harry was glad he’d asked.

Draco smiled tolerantly. “No. You’ll say, ‘Narcissa, may I present my cousin Dudley? I believe you are already acquainted with his wife, Millicent’. Then you’ll step slightly to one side, and let your cousin bow to her.”

Harry snorted. Seeing Dudley bow to anyone would be an amusing sight, he thought.

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “Millicent Bulstrode is a pure-blood and knows her place. She’s probably doing the same thing right now, you realise.” Harry sighed. “Probably. Then you present him to me.”

“And so I say the same?”

“More or less. It would be appropriate to add instead of believing me to be acquainted with Millicent that I will of course recall her from school. Though we will already have greeted one another.”

Harry laughed. “Naturally.”

“Your cousin will then present his spawn, who can be removed immediately to the nursery, if you wish. Otherwise, Silky will take him off to one side to play quietly.”

“I suppose we can work that out when we get there,” Harry said. His fingers twitched to run his fingers through his hair again, but he restrained the urge. 

“Then my mother will take over,” Draco continued. “There will be tea. And then they will leave. With all faculties and limbs intact no matter how badly they behave.”

Harry couldn’t account for why he was so nervous; Dudley had shown mild regret in his letters and the last time he’d seen him for the way he’d treated Harry over the years, but it didn’t make seeing him after so long any easier. Not when Harry was so different from the boy he’d been.

His leg was already twitching uncomfortably from the tension; but he pushed it aside, and pulled Draco to him for a kiss before they left the suite. Narcissa was already seated in one of the chairs when they arrived, wearing pale blue robes and looking more aristocratic than Harry had ever seen her. As long as Dudley kept from saying something monumentally stupid, he reckoned he could deal with it. Narcissa greeted Harry and Draco, her eyes sweeping over his new stick, a look of satisfaction on her face before her expression became coolly disinterested again. 

Shortly after they were seated, Flitter escorted Kingsley to them. Harry sat on one of the sofas, Draco on the opposite end, still within arm’s reach, between both Malfoys. Harry kept one hand on his stick, thinking that tightening his grip on it wouldn’t be as noticeable to either Millicent or Dudley as fidgeting would be. 

When they arrived, Harry followed Draco’s lead and stood when they entered and stumbled through the formalities. He was surprised to see Dudley had slimmed down considerably, but he was still broad and bulky. He was dressed in Muggle clothes, and Millicent was in robes. Their son seemed to have inherited more of Millicent’s traits than Dudley’s. The boy was at least three years old, and it reminded Harry that he’d be seeing Teddy that evening. 

Thankful that Narcissa had taken over, Harry added to the conversation when something caught his interest, but he watched them mostly. Dudley was trying his level best not to be an arse, Harry could tell, and was quite relieved. The conversation was stiff, the topics mainly inconsequential. Aloysius, Harry learned, had been accepted at Hogwarts already, and he even learned that Professor Flitwick was now the Headmaster. There was a lull, and Harry refrained from engaging them if he didn’t need to. 

His lack of interaction had nothing to do with not wanting to show good faith and get to know Dudley and his wife, but he was uncomfortable, and couldn’t shake the feeling that Dudley would ruin the visit by doing or saying something stupid.

He was right. 

Dudley looked straight at Harry, his eyes so like uncle Vernon’s, and said, “I always knew you was gay, what with the way you used to scream about that bloke Cedric.”

 

 

 

 

 

Millicent flinched as Harry’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Anger surged through Harry at the statement, and he tightened his hold around his stick. He needed to get away from Dudley that moment, or he was sure he’d curse him with something that would have done Draco proud. Reaching out with a trembling hand, as Draco’s gaze was centred on Millicent, he ran his fingers over the back of Draco’s wrist. “Excuse me.”

Standing stiffly, Harry moved toward the door, hearing Narcissa say, “The poor young man whose murder Harry was compelled to witness when he was fourteen?” as he closed it behind him. 

Flitter stood waiting, and, apparently had orders pre-emptively, led Harry to the blue sitting room. Harry hadn’t actually made any plans when he’d left the drawing room, but he interpreted it as an invitation to vent his temper on whatever he wanted in there. He pulled out his wand and cast any spell that came to mind. Some of it was questionable, often hexes and curses he wished he had known in his Hogwarts days that could have been used against his relatives. 

A vase shattered, the sound oddly soothing to Harry’s raw nerves. He flung another curse at a painting that resembled Lucius far too much for his taste – even though it obviously wasn’t – and watched as the canvas sizzled, then knitted back together. Seeing a magical portrait damaged was strange; it seemed to bleed and Harry thought he heard bones shatter. A shudder of discomfort at the realness of the damage ran through him, and he turned, sobered.

He didn’t think that Dudley had intentionally meant to anger him, but it just proved that he still had as much control over his tongue and thoughts as a small child over their bladder. The urge hit, so he released whatever he was thinking; and since Harry had learned a measure of self-control, it had incensed him to have Dudley draw conclusions out of thin air and ridiculous speculation. 

With no idea how long he’d been absent, Harry stood in the middle of the tattered room and breathed heavily, understanding why Draco and Narcissa took to having a go at a room full of inanimate objects when they were angry. He felt relieved, and drained. His leg was still tense, but he had directed his anger at things that wouldn’t be hurt by his actions, and that gave him no small amount of satisfaction. 

He exited the blue sitting room and since Flitter was still standing there, he sent the elf to fetch Mrs Prout; he needed to know if he was still presentable. 

Mrs Prout arrived with expedience and did the same things Draco’s had done before they’ve left the suite, though without the touch lingering on his arse. Harry returned, his limp more pronounced as he re-entered the drawing room and took a seat. He bent his leg when he sat, but immediately had to straighten it again. It was too tight.

Draco and Narcissa’s bearing were like glaciers, and full of contempt. Harry had no idea what had happened in his absence, but the frigid feel of the two Malfoys and Kingsley’s formal expression, told Harry it had been uneasy. Guilt at having left Draco and Narcissa to deal with his cousin washed over Harry, and he sat silently, grateful when Millicent suggested that she and Dudley take their leave. 

When they had gone, Narcissa and Kingsley retired to the formal garden on the terrace outside the drawing room. Draco stood and went to the window, watching them. 

“Bulstrode is probably castrating your cousin as we speak,” Draco stated abruptly.

Harry looked up from his hands. “Oh? I knew he’d be... difficult, but I didn’t really expect that.” Harry grimaced. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed gone so long.”

Draco shook his head dismissively. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for not coming back at all.” Scowling, Draco continued, “She’ll be furious with him. She must have instructed him at great length on keeping his mouth shut.”

Harry shrugged. 

“You behaved with marvellous discretion.”

Heat spread over Harry’s face, and he couldn’t help quirking a smile at the compliment. He bent his leg again, but it was still too tight, and he gave up trying to sit with both knees bent. 

“Shacklebolt should be leaving soon.”

“Good. I need to... relax a bit.” Harry’s brow furrowed as he admitted, “My leg’s bothering me.”

“It won’t be long. My mother’s telling him how much she’s appreciated having his support today.” 

Surprised that Draco could apparently read lips, Harry looked up, watching Draco. A gratified expression came over his face. 

“That’s nice.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“He hopes he isn’t indulging in excessive aspiration when he hopes to have the honour of supporting her through any other difficulty she may face. Maybe I don’t need to drop her a hint, then.”

“About?”

“Bringing him up to scratch. As soon as he asks me for her hand in marriage, we can stop chaperoning them.” 

Draco left the window and took a seat next to Harry; and Harry ran the back of his fingers over Draco’s hand. Draco turned his hand over and caught Harry’s in his. “I see. It won’t be long,” Harry said. 

He lifted Draco’s hand to his face, wanting the comfort of his touch. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the glide of Draco’s fingers against his cheek take his tension like gathering a memory for a Pensieve. A gentle kiss was pressed against the side of Harry’s head; he smiled.

“No?”

“I think he’s been thinking about her for some time. I didn’t really think about it until he asked to court her, but when your father died, Kingsley made sure that the names of the families weren’t released.”

Draco seemed surprised. “It hadn’t occurred to me that that could be anything to do with my mother.” 

“He looks at her a certain way, too,” Harry added.

With a nod, Draco turned his attention back to his mother and Kingsley in the garden, his hand tightening absently around Harry’s. “Yes, that I have noticed.” 

Harry smiled again, stroking the back of Draco’s hand with his thumb. And Draco turned to smile at him. “We should have a bath once Shacklebolt’s gone.” 

“Mm. Sounds good.”

**~*~*~*~**

Teddy and Andromeda arrived later in the afternoon, and Harry immediately had his arms full of his energetic godson the moment he and Draco stood to greet them. Teddy’s hug was fierce against Harry’s neck, and his joie de vivre was catching. After having Draco bathe him and massage his leg, Harry had felt much better, the morning having retreated to the back of his mind, just a bad memory.

Andromeda retired with Narcissa, while Harry and Draco took Teddy outside, and sat on the croquet lawn. Harry charmed Snitches for Teddy to chase. Each time his godson touched one, it disappeared, and he would conjure a new one. It kept Teddy occupied, and he and Draco sat next to one another, enjoying the sunlight. 

Teddy, after having worn himself out a bit, joined them. It wasn't long before he was tugging Harry's robe sleeve to make more, and when his godfather hadn't acted quickly enough for him, Teddy snatched Draco's wand from where it had been lying on the table after he had charmed the Harry doll's arm back into working order again and pointed it at them.

A flash of red zapped Teddy and he fell to the ground, giggling. Startled for a moment, Harry looked at Teddy, his head snapping toward Draco, but Draco was already reacting.

“Your grandmother has taught you that it is not appropriate to take another wizard’s wand, cousin. You will apologise forthwith.”

Teddy continued to giggle uncontrollably as Harry began to reach for his wand at his godson’s attempts at speech over his laughter. Draco restrained him, and Harry cast a quick glance at him.

“Not sure he can apologise like that.”

“I-I-I…” Teddy tried, his face alight and little body shaking on the ground.

Draco gestured for him to wait, so Harry did. 

Still giggling, Teddy fought for words. “So-so-sor—”

Draco Summoned his wand and ended the spell, his expression expectant. Teddy sat up slowly, his breathing heavy.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Teddy said.

“For what are you sorry?” Draco asked.

“For taking your wand.” Teddy looked down.

Nodding, Draco went on, “And will you do it again?”

“No.”

Draco wore a look of approval. “Now. Breathe deeply for me.” Startled, Harry looked at Draco, as his wand described a complicated shape in the air. “It’s entirely possible to fracture ribs in the grip of Rictusempra.”

Smiling, Harry shook his head. He was amused by Draco’s method of dealing with Teddy, how different it was from his own. It offered him more insight into Draco’s upbringing at Lucius’ hand, and he suspected that even with the harsh side of Lucius shaping most of the way Draco handled things, Draco would always maintain the same sort of calm reason he was using then with their children, unless the situation was more severe. However odd a thought it was, Harry couldn’t dismiss it once it had begun: together, they would make good parents. With Draco’s pragmatism, and Harry’s more emotion-led reasoning, he suspected there would be a genuine balance and that their children would want for nothing, whether it be love and affection or material things. But Harry had no inclination to spoil his children with possessions, even if part of him wanted to give them everything he’d never had. Having the too-fresh memories of Dudley in his thoughts, Harry vowed to himself that he wouldn’t raise his own children in such a way. He suspected Draco would agree with him. 

“Does your throat hurt, cousin?”

“No.”

“Can you open your mouth wide?”

Teddy complied, bringing a faint smile to Draco’s face in return. “Very good. You seem to be alright. Now, you have apologised for what you did, and you are forgiven; but do you know why you shouldn’t do it?”

Teddy shook his head.

“Why do you think I have been checking your ribs, and asking about your throat and mouth?”

“’Cos you’re a Healer."

“That is correct. But why does a Healer look at you and perform tests on you?”

A puzzled expression came over Teddy’s face as he tilted his head. “To see if you’re poorly.”

“That’s right,” Draco said, tipping his head to one side. “Why do you think I might have wanted to check whether you're poorly?”

“’Cos of using your wand?” he suggested tentatively. Harry knew Teddy was aware that he had done something wrong, and that he was ashamed of admitting it.

Draco nodded. “You were lucky, this time. It only made you laugh, and you didn’t get hurt. But it could have been a lot worse. Harry, you’ve been hurt when you tried to use the wrong wand, haven’t you?”

Shocked, that tingle running down Harry’s spine, his attention moved from Teddy to Draco. “Oh, uh, yeah.” The feeling of that shock in his palm every time he had attempted a _Lumos_ charm was still very vivid in Harry’s mind.

Draco’s gaze returned to Teddy, who appeared more than a little surprised. “Your godfather is a skilled, trained wizard. If he can be hurt by using the wrong wand, do you think you can?”

Teddy nodded slowly.

“So why was it wrong to take my wand and try to use it?”

“’Cos it can hurt me."

Draco nodded. “And that’s why you're not going to take someone’s wand ever again, isn’t it?" 

“Yes.”

Smiling, Draco said, “Good. Now, would you like Silky to fetch you some pumpkin juice and plum cake, or would you like to play with your godfather?”

“Play with Harry! Then juice,” Teddy said, grinning. 

Draco turned a faintly smug look at Harry. “Then have fun.”

“See you later,” Harry said as Draco stood.

“Harry, will you take me flying? Please?” Teddy asked.

Before Draco could leave, Harry queried, “Do you think it’ll be alright?” He hadn’t flown in some time. 

Draco hesitated momentarily, but said, “You have a good idea of your own limits, now. I trust you will not over-stretch yourself,” and walked a few steps before Disapparating. 

Harry called Flitter to get his old Nimbus 2000 that McGonagall had given him, and called Silky to sit with Teddy while he tried flying out. It was slow moving at first, and took him a moment to work out the best way to sit and keep his leg from too much strain while flying, but he managed. It felt good to be in the air again, to have that freedom. He realised almost immediately that he would not be able to fly for extended periods of time, at least not until he had healed a bit more. But Harry refused to allow that to deter him from doing something he had always enjoyed. 

Once he was confident that he could control the broom and support Teddy, Harry flew to where Silky and Teddy sat and hoisted Teddy in front of him, keeping on arm securely around his godson, using the other to steer the broom. Exercising caution, Harry never flew too high off the ground, just in case he lost control; but they did cover a lot of ground. The sun was setting by the time they returned to the lawn furniture they’d set out from, and Harry was tired and sweaty from holding Teddy and steering. 

Andromeda and Narcissa were waiting for them as they approached, Teddy still giggling with exuberance. Unfortunately, it was time for them to leave, and Teddy squealed his thanks as they left for the Floo room. Needing to clean up, Harry walked, his leg tired and aching, to the master suite. He stripped his sweaty robe and stepped into the shower, the warm water easing away some of the tension. 

Having pushed himself a bit further than he had in previous days, Harry made sure to hold the handrails as he cleaned himself. His leg continued to throb in discomfort, but there wasn’t anything to be done for it right then. 

A quick stab of pain like a Stinging Hex shot up Harry’s thigh, and he lost his balance, trying to grip the rail before he hit the cubicle floor. He crashed hard on his arse against the tiles, hitting his head on the wall. Slightly dazed, he tried to stand up, but the quivering in his leg, as surprising as it had been the first time it had happened, prevented it. 

“Kreacher!” Harry called. _Pop._ Before the elf could speak, Harry cut him off. “Get Draco. Now!”

Resting his head against the wall, Harry took measured breaths, trying to calm himself. Draco Apparated into the bathroom almost immediately. Harry had barely got his eyes open when the water died and he heard Draco dismiss Kreacher. Draco hauled him out of the shower, then wrapped him up in towels and carried him to the bed.

After a series of diagnostic charms and one aimed at Harry’s leg that immediately dismissed the painful tension, Draco demanded, “What the bloody hell happened?” 

“Spasms. Wasn’t expecting it, and I fell. I _was_ holding onto the handrail.” Harry reached for his thigh and began to rub it. Draco pushed his hand away and replaced Harry’s with his own. 

“Then you shouldn't shower alone. Bathe, from now on; or call me to shower with you.”

“Alright,” Harry said. With a half-smile, he tried to ease the tension. “Teddy kept me busy on the broom.”

Draco nodded. “Don’t let him wear you out. You’re not as strong as you were.”

“I know,” Harry stated wistfully. 

“Give it time, Potter. You’ll get better,” Draco reassured him.

“Even if I don’t, it’ll be fine. It’s just taking some getting used to.”

Draco smiled reassuringly. “You’ll get better.” Regarding Harry gravely, he said, “I can’t… guarantee that you’ll recover the state you had before it all began.”

“I never thought I would,” Harry said, smiling and completely at ease with the circumstances. It surprised Harry that Draco still hadn’t seemed to have accepted that Harry might not ever be capable of some of the things he had done before the curses. He supposed that he’d given more active consideration to accepting that he might not be the same after everything, though. “That’s fine, too, though. I don’t blame you. I don’t blame anyone – apart from the idiots of Azkaban. Ginny’s spell—”

Draco snarled, surprising Harry. “And the idiots at St Mungo’s who didn’t help, and your damned useless excuse for an occupational health team! You should never have been allowed to get into that state in the first place.”

“Nothing will change that now. Unless you know of a Time-Turner that goes back years. But I wouldn’t want to do that. Not to lose you. And remember everything without you knowing.” Harry sat up and wrapped his arms around Draco tightly. “You saved me.”

Draco slipped his arms around Harry, a dissatisfied expression on his face. Speaking directly into Harry’s ear, Draco said, “It’s just wrong. And you won't let me punish them.”

“What would it matter?” Harry asked, stroking Draco’s hair. “It wouldn’t change anything.” He was silent for a long moment. “No one likes admitting they’re weak. You learn, I suppose, that you can only do so much.” With a light laugh, he added, “But I can’t complain, not when it brought me here.” Harry pressed a reassuring kiss against Draco’s ear. “Even if I hadn’t ever walked again… it wouldn’t change how I feel about us. About you.”

Draco’s arms tightened around Harry. “It’d make me feel better.”

“Temporarily, maybe.”

“You’d be surprised,” Draco said, burying his face in Harry’s wet hair.

Placing a kiss against Draco’s neck, Harry said, “I don’t think I would be. But I’d rather not lose you, if it’s all the same.”

Draco huffed. “Will you ever have faith in my ability to do these things undetected?”

“It’s not about lack of faith in your ability,” Harry said, pulling away to look at Draco. “I just don’t understand how it would help. There are so many people involved, people with families, people with their own problems. If you wanted to right every wrong someone has done to me since all of this happened, there’d be a long list to go through. And eventually someone will get wise to what’s happening and come straight for you. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’d go through it all again just to have this outcome.”

Draco huffed again. 

“Nothing else is worth losing this, Draco.” Harry paused. “You’d have to hurt a lot of people.” Draco closed the embrace again. “Including yourself. And me,” Harry pointed out.

“Shut up, Potter. I despise it, but you win. As usual.”

Harry dropped his head to Draco’s shoulder. “It’s not about winning. But I’m not going to let you hurt me, or yourself.”

“I want to punish people, you won’t let me. Therefore I’m not going to, therefore you win. Just drop it. I will never agree with you on this subject.”

Harry sighed. “Fine. I suppose I should get dressed. I don’t think your mum and Kingsley would appreciate me naked at the dining table.”

“I could blind them,” Draco said, encouraging a laugh from Harry. “I know more than twenty curses that blind people. And only seven of them are Dark.”

“If you want me naked while we eat, Flitter can bring our food in here,” Harry said, flushing. 

“That’s more tempting than you’ll ever understand, but I need to chaperon my mother.”

“Then I suppose I need to get some robes on.”

Draco hummed, but didn’t move. Harry bit his neck lightly, and Draco contrived to reach for his wand, firing off well-chosen Summoning Charms. A robe, underthings, and socks flew into the bedroom and landed on the bed.

“Show off,” Harry teased with a smile.

Draco licked his neck. “Just reminding you how it’s done, Potter.”

Inhaling Draco’s scent, Harry bit him again. “You can show me anything you want.”

“After dinner, when Shacklebolt is safely off the premises, I shall do so.”

**~*~*~*~**

A few days later, Harry sat reading the _Prophet_ in one of the morning rooms with Narcissa, who would be leaving to have tea with Kingsley in Diagon soon, with Mrs Dawlish chaperoning them, and nearly choked on his tea as he read the headline on the Sports page. Ginny flashed a ridiculous smile at the camera, her face blotchy and unattractive. Irritation at her apparent placement on the Chudley Cannons washed through him, and he excused himself, dropping the paper on the table in a messy pile.

Traversing through the various rooms, Harry was halfway across the house before he realised he was heading straight to Draco. He walked through one of the drawing rooms and ran into Mrs Prout, whose cheeks were flushed brilliantly, seeming out of sorts. 

“Eleanor, is everything alright?” he asked, concerned. It obviously wasn’t, based on her expression, but he wouldn’t demand she tell him. 

“Oh! Oh, yes, Harry. It is.” She smiled. “You just gave me a bit of a turn. It’s that business with Mr Malfoy.”

“What business?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing. 

“The Boggart. Oh, you haven’t seen him yet, have you?” She appeared stricken. “And he probably wouldn’t have told you anyway; I know how he hates to distress you.”

“Go on,” Harry urged, curious.

Apologetically, she explained, “There was a Boggart in the wardrobe in the room he’s said I can give Matilda when the children arrive. I couldn’t… well, I couldn’t, could I? I was going to ask Keith or Ianthe to get rid of it, but Mr Malfoy was passing as I came out, so of course I told him about it.” She wrung her hands, continuing, “And… well, of course, he went straight in. And the Boggart… Well, I knew it would be something horrid; bound to be, really, what with him being who he is, but I never expected—” Mrs Prout stopped with a choked sob, and buried her face in her apron.

Harry laid a supportive hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright. Um, what didn’t you expect?” he asked, unsure if he wanted to know.

Mrs Prout looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. “You!”

Startled, Harry asked, “Me?”

Dabbing at her eyes, apparently to reassure herself she was actually seeing Harry, she said, “You were… oh, Harry, you were dead! And he—” She choked again.

Harry kept his hand on her shoulder. “I’m alright. What did Draco do?”

Mrs Prout pulled herself together. “He only faltered for a moment, but just for that moment—” She sniffed. “Oh, dear, he did look distraught. But he disposed of it, of course.” She smiled waterily. “He told me that I should have stayed outside, then. Some of the things his Boggart could have been; he said they’d have given me nightmares.” Reasserting her usual personality, she said, “He apologised, then. Tried to make a bit of a joke of it. His Boggart used to be so harmless, too; it was a Hippogriff for years. He almost misses it, he said.” She chuckled hopefully.

Smiling faintly, Harry asked, “Has he gone back to the library?”

Mrs Prout spread her hands. “I don’t know, I’m afraid. He didn’t say.”

Harry nodded. “Alright. Thank you, Eleanor.” He smiled again in a measure to reassure her that everything was alright. “I’ll just go see.”

Supposing that it would be best to let Draco know that he was in fact alive, Harry headed to Draco’s private library. When he arrived, Draco didn’t look up, or move. Harry approached and rested his hand on Draco’s shoulder, and leaned down to place a kiss on his head.

As though jolted by lightning, Draco looked up, his fingers twitching. 

“We’re alone.”

Draco blinked and frowned in incomprehension, so Harry reached out and ran his fingers over the back of Draco’s hand. Draco turned his over and caught Harry’s, offering a smile that would have convinced anyone but Harry that he was alright. 

“What brings you in here?”

“The pleasure of your company,” Harry said, uncertain whether he should bring up Mrs Prout or let Draco broach the subject. 

Draco tilted his head to one side with a quizzical look. “That’s nice of you.”

Rubbing his thumb against Draco’s hand, Harry smiled, and said, “On the rare occasion.”

“You don’t normally beard me in my lair like this.”

“You’ve been in here most of the morning. I wanted to see if I could pry you away from your books for a bit.” Harry sighed. “And when I was on my way here, I saw Eleanor.”

Draco tensed almost imperceptibly. “Well, she does live here.”

“I thought… thought you might need— I was on my way here anyway, but I wanted…” Harry tightened his hold on Draco’s hand.

Draco’s expression changed rapidly several times, the shutters slamming into place. “She told you about the Boggart.”

Harry nodded.

“I had hoped she wouldn’t.” Harry squeezed Draco’s hand briefly, not releasing his hold. “It was only a Boggart.” 

But Harry knew it was more than that. Of all the things that Draco could be afraid of – Lucius, Voldemort, Greyback, his aunt Bellatrix – the one that scared him the most was the thought of Harry dying, and Harry had no idea how to handle that. He was honoured to be loved that much by Draco, and hoped that he would also be worthy of such a high level of regard.

“Your reaction says it’s more than that, but I thought— I would have come, regardless of seeing her on the way here. It just… felt more important to come now.”

Draco looked at his hands. After a long pause, he admitted, “It used to be a Hippogriff, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“That was long before the third year. It’s been a Hippogriff for as long as I can remember.” Harry stroked his hand reassuringly as Draco’s expression clouded. “It changed when I was sixteen.”

“That’s understandable,” Harry said, wondering if he should be pulling Draco into his arms and making him forget what had happened. 

As if trying to upset the thoughts he didn’t want to dwell on, Draco shook his head. “I don’t really want to discuss this.” He stood and regarded Harry without releasing his hand. “So boredom drove you to brave the library, then?”

Harry squeezed Draco’s hand again. “Not boredom. I was… preferred to have someone to talk to. Krum was with Hermione, your mum has gone to Diagon for tea with Kingsley, and Eleanor is still sorting out the rooms for the children.”

Smiling, Draco asked, “What would you like to talk about?”

Harry flushed. “I, uh, don’t know. I know I said I wanted to talk to someone, but I really just wanted to be around someone.” He shrugged. “And I’m curious what you do in here all day.” In a soothing motion, Harry brushed his fingers against Draco’s chest.

Draco quirked a smile. “I read quite a lot. And I make notes. Conduct estate business.”

Sliding his hand up Draco’s chest, Harry cupped his cheek. Draco tilted his head into the touch, bringing a smile to Harry’s face.

Draco smiled back quizzically. 

“What are you thinking?” Harry asked.

“I’m thinking that there’s something on your mind. Is this about my Boggart or your erstwhile fiancée?”

Harry ran his fingertips across Draco’s lips, then dropped his hand. 

“Or something else?”

“I did read the _Prophet_ this morning. It’s… not really bothering me. I’m surprised, I suppose, that any teams would accept her after—” Harry’s brow wrinkled. “I was concerned about you when I came in; I know you don’t want to discuss it. I’m just… telling you.” _You aren’t the only one who worries._ And Harry took the opportunity to voice some of the other things he had been thinking about. “Was also wondering why three children. And how all that would work. Mostly it’s just wool-gathering.” Harry flushed.

Draco leaned forward and kissed Harry, stealing a soft sound of gratification. 

“They’d take her because she’s a passable Seeker and the Cannons will take whoever they can get who won’t fall off the broom.” He paused. “I’m alright. And three… well, you said ‘at least two’. I need an heir. It’s only fair that you should have a child of your own, too. And the other…” Draco quirked a half-smile, “…it’s all very theoretical at the moment.”

Harry tilted his head to the side. “What do you mean?” If it got a smile from Draco, whatever he was contemplating was agreeable.

“It’s based in some very abstruse and poorly researched areas of medical magic. And you must understand that there are no guarantees. It really is hypothesis at the moment.”

“Guarantees for what?”

“I believe that it should be possible to combine our genetic material – yours and mine – without the… input of the gestational mother.”

It took Harry a moment to realise what Draco was saying. But when he did, a brilliant smile lit his face. “You mean… a child that would be ours?”

Draco nodded gravely.

“That’s… brilliant,” Harry said.

“It’s only theoretical.”

Harry nodded. “And… if the theory doesn’t apply?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “It should. Eventually. And she didn’t set any time limits. But if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. We’ll still have a third child.”

Harry nodded again. “How long have you been thinking about that?”

Shrugging, Draco replied. “For a while. Long enough to dig those out, at any rate.” He gestured at some books that looked incredibly old.

“Oh.”

“Would you prefer the second two to be yours?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I was just…” Harry smiled. “We can make that decision after the second is born.”

“What did you mean, then?” 

Heat spread on Harry’s cheeks. “What ‘for a while’ meant.”

A faint smile pulled at Draco’s lips. “Ah.” He glanced at the books again. “Before you enlisted Lovegood.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and Draco coloured very faintly, the warmth attractive. 

“Before you actually proposed.”

“You…?” Harry smiled brilliantly, realising Draco had been thinking about it for some time, too.

The colour on Draco’s cheeks rose as he cleared his throat.

Harry bit his lip. “You still surprise me. In a good way.”

Draco’s bearing shifted; and recognising the set of his shoulders and the look on Draco’s face, Harry said, “Don’t be nervous,” as he squeezed Draco’s hand reassuringly. It was no small comfort that Draco had had similar notions about their relationship and the changes it had gone through over recent months.

Draco looked up.

“I didn’t… that’s why you said what you did about my sense of timing at dinner.”

Draco quirked a smile. “No, actually that was when I started thinking about it. You didn’t propose until some time _after_ that, if you remember.”

“I was afraid you might say no. But I’m glad I didn’t let that stop me.”

His expression mystified, Draco said, “I’d practically told you I’d say yes.”

“Yes, but I mean before I had brought it up again. After some of my other mistakes, I didn’t want to mess that up, too, and presume that you’d… That’s why I asked those things.”

Draco shook his head in disbelief.

“I’m happy with the way things turned out, though,” Harry said.

Draco smiled. “Good. So am I.”

Harry mirrored Draco’s expression. “Do you want to work, or would you like to do something? I know next week is going to be difficult.” Harry had been studying the books and notes that Luna had brought on the Mark removal. Draco and Luna both had been helping him learn the spell properly, and he’d be patient with his progress at the complicated incantation. Luna had been trying to keep him focussed on the proper state of mind he would need during the procedure, and Draco had been focussed on the wand movement and diction.

“I’d like to do something, but I need to get some papers in order first. Shacklebolt has obliged us at last.”

“Kingsley’s proposed to your mother?”

“Not in so many words. He’s offered for her; he won’t actually propose to her until we’ve agreed the settlements.”

“The what?” Harry asked, confused.

“The settlements.” Draco moved toward his desk and gestured at looked like Gringotts statements. Harry noticed the first orchid he’d got Draco on the desk amidst the parchment spread out, a smile spreading on his face. “The financial arrangements. And sundry other things, but this is what takes time and parchment-work.”

Still uncomprehending what Draco was talking about, Harry just stared at him. 

Draco shook his head. “Arranging one’s marriage isn’t just a question of ‘will you?’ and ‘yes’.”

“It was for us,” Harry mumbled.

An affectionate and warm smile – evincing love and amusement – that Harry rarely got to see, but knew was only for him, softened Draco’s face. “That’s different.”

“You’re going to have to explain it,” Harry said. “I’ve… I don’t know anything about this. Apart from seeing it mentioned in a book or something.”

Draco sighed. “I’m the head of my family, as you’re the head of yours. That makes things a little different in any case, but principally the distinction lies in the fact that I fully intend to bestow upon you as entirely as possible everything I own. That’s really not normal.”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“Generally, agreements have to be reached to protect property and fortune,” Draco was going on. “Prevent a feckless husband from squandering his bride’s fortune, or prevent a faithless wife from handing her husband’s family sapphires to her lover.” Draco made a vague gesture. “Shacklebolt has to settle a certain amount of money – a not inconsiderable one – on my mother personally, for her protection and maintenance in the event of his death, since, once she marries him, she ceases to be my responsibility,” Draco explained. “When she married my father, a settlement was made on her; fortunately it was agreed that it should endure in the event of her remarriage as a widow, presuming no mariticide, otherwise Shacklebolt would be looking at laying down more than he’s worth himself.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose.

“I will be making a comparable arrangement, of course. There are conditions to do with the fate of the marriage: if she’s unfaithful, he’s entitled to the return of the settlement he put down on her; if he is, she’s entitled to divorce him and keep it. That sort of thing. There’s considerably more to it.” Draco directed a distasteful look at the parchments on his desk. “They did most of the negotiating themselves, I’m happy to say, in terms of the marriage itself. My part is restricted really to the financial and legal agreements.” Draco frowned slightly. “No agreement on children beyond an undertaking from him to settle a fixed amount on each one at its birth. Or the equivalent thereto allowing for inflation and whatnot.”

“Does that mean they will or will not have children?” Harry asked, finding it difficult to follow so much information. 

Draco’s frown deepened. “It means that I need to prepare my mind for the likelihood of having siblings of a comparable age with my son.”

Harry’s head was spinning with information. He couldn’t believe Draco was giving so much to him. He wasn’t aware of the actual numbers, but he knew Draco had a considerable fortune. 

“And I daresay I’ll be expected to make provision for them myself, too. I’ll be making provision for ours,” Draco was adding, with a smile. “You don’t need me under contract for that. You’ll stand to inherit everything that isn’t entailed upon my son or otherwise specifically bequeathed elsewhere, of course.” Looking back at the papers, Draco’s eyes darted back and forth, a frown drawing down his lips.

“What?” Harry asked.

“I’m not sure, exactly. Praie could give you a full accounting; I'm afraid I have a deplorable tendency to take his word for it. I get past the first hundred million and the numbers start to look a little silly.”

Harry choked on the breath he’d just taken.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked, glancing up.

Flushing, Harry cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“Do you need to sit down?” The papers were set on the desk, and Draco took on the look that Harry knew meant he was shifting into Healer mode.

“No. That’s… a lot of money. Galleons are worth more than Muggle currency…” Harry trailed off, overwhelmed.

Draco was mystified. “Of course it’s a lot of money. Potter, you _knew_ that I’m atrociously wealthy. Do you want me to get rid of it, or something?”

Laughing at the absurdity of the notion, Harry said, “No… don’t be silly. I just… I’m hardly marrying you for your money. I may not have that much, but… You’ve never indicated numbers.”

Draco blinked, apparently unable to see the significance of the point. “You’ve never asked. Most of it’s overseas, or tied up in property, or secure vaults. I could probably lay my hands on ten or twelve million immediately if I needed to, but that majority’s… well, inconvenient to access. That’s currency, obviously. It’s more if I take into account the assets that can be liquidated readily.” Draco shrugged. “Praie’s man of business deals with most of it.”

“If I had a Galleon and you, I’d be happy,” Harry said softly, then shook his head. “Alright, well, I’ll be watching a film, then. Just come get me when you’re ready. We can dine in the suite and relax. Or if you want to do something else, that’s fine.”

“I shouldn’t be long. You could wait.”

Harry smiled. “Alright.”

“You trust Shacklebolt. I should be able to repose reasonable confidence in him to refrain from gouging me too badly.”

Scanning the shelves, Harry selected one of the medical texts on curse-removal and took a seat on the sofa, the sound of Draco’s quill moving across the parchment the only thing breaking the comfortable silence. Ever since he’d been reading the books Luna had brought, Harry’s interest in medical magic had been steadily growing. The theoretical stuff was too complex for him to comprehend with any real enthusiasm, but the magic involved in helping to heal the body intrigued him. Often while Draco had been in his library, Harry had been devouring the texts, committing details to memory that he hoped would be useful when he had removed the Mark. Draco had taught him the diagnostic charms he’d need to know to monitor Draco’s status, and they’d talked about what Harry would have to do if any of the results were negative. The whole thing had sparked something in him that he’d never given active consideration to, but it felt good to be engaging his mind and find he was decent at it, too. It fostered a confidence he hadn’t felt for some time.

“He’s got some cheek,” Draco said abruptly.

“What do you mean? Harry asked, looking up, with his thumb on the page he was reading.

“Shacklebolt. He wants to marry my mother before the year is out.” Draco shook his head. “He can forget that.”

Curious, Harry asked, “Have you told your mother when we’re marrying yet? I haven’t said anything to anyone.” 

“Certainly not. And have her turn it into some sort of extravaganza? By no means. But it’s immaterial. The courtship may have proceeded with unseemly haste, but they can and will have a reasonably-paced engagement. He may marry her in the summer.” 

The scratch of quill against parchment began again, seeming to compose Harry’s thoughts along with whatever Draco penned. 

“Not before Scorpius is born,” Harry blurted, a bright flush covering his face. He wanted their family to be established first, even if it was a bit selfish.

Draco looked up and said, “Very well,” scribbling another note. After a meditative moment, he added, “It’s just as well we decided on the end of the year. It’ll take that long to get some of the legalities sorted out.” He laid down his quill, then picked up the parchment and read it, nodding his satisfaction. 

“I don’t have to do anything complicated, do I?”

Draco smiled. “Just sign a few things.”

“I’m glad you know about these things. Our children will have a lot to learn,” Harry said.

“Scorpius certainly will. We’ll have to go through the estates and decide what you want to divert to the other two. A lot of the core property is entailed, of course. The Manor, for instance. But the estate in Shropshire’s quite tolerable. And the one in Herefordshire. And there’s the overseas property.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed, feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of wading through long lists of the things Draco owned – that he was bestowing equally on Harry – and of properties that would need to be distributed among their children. 

Returning his attention to his book, Harry read the same paragraph three times before giving up. There was a soft _pop_ as he set the book on the table in front of him, and Flitter appeared with two missives in his hand.

“Flitter has urgent letters for Master and Master Harry.”

The little elf brought each of them their letters and disappeared when Draco dismissed him. Harry popped the seal on his, unfolding the parchment quickly and reading. It was a letter from fforde-Fane, indicating that Harry was required to undergo a series of psychological, physical, and magical tests to complete his official resignation from the Ministry and clear him from Draco’s private care. An immediate response, confirming the date and time, was requested.

Writing a quick response, he looked at Draco, who seemed to be replying to a similar letter. 

“They want you there on the twenty-sixth, too?”

“Knighton suggests that that would be a convenient date for him to see me, if I happen to be able to fit in an engagement, yes. He claims to have an interest in some of the details of the mutation of _Malleus Mentis_ that he wishes to discuss in person.” Draco absently tapped the point of his quill on his blotting pad. “I suspect there may be an element of trying to establish just how badly this could embarrass fforde-Fane and the hospital, and whether or not I intend to see that it does.” 

A malicious part of Harry hoped Draco would, as fforde-Fane had nearly killed him; however, he supposed in a roundabout way he owed fforde-Fane his thanks, too.

After they’d sent their responses to St Mungo’s, they retired to the sitting room of their suite. Draco had purchased another TV, and somehow had worked out a way to power them, even though it didn’t appear that Muggle electricity extended to the suite. Harry was amused that Draco seemed to have taken to watching films even more than playing with his GameBoy. They sat on the sofa, watching something mindless, comfortable. Silence used to mean that Ginny was angry about something, but Harry found himself comfortable without _having_ to say anything. They enjoyed sitting next to one another, hands touching, or Harry’s head on Draco’s shoulder, and it was peaceful. 

As the film they were watching didn’t require Harry’s absolute attention, he let his mind wander over the past few days, idly stroking Draco’s leg. The day after Harry had taken Teddy out on his broom, Krum had called into the sitting room after Harry and Draco had returned from Harry’s fourth piano lesson, which had now become routine, and had invited Harry to fly with him. Harry had gone with him, still using his old Nimbus 2000, rather than the newer model broom he’d bought before everything had happened. He had been careful, and had sent his Patronus to Draco when he returned to the house, his leg sore and aching as it had previously. The walk from the pitch had given Harry time to reflect on things, and he found himself musing regretfully and gratefully that he’d never flown against Krum in school. He’d been a decent flyer, but Krum out-flew him in every way. Part of him had thought it might have been fun really finding out if he’d have been any match for Krum when he’d been fit and still flying regularly. And walking through to the bathroom, Harry noticed that Draco had once again arrived before him. He had suspected that Draco had Apparated, while Harry had actually taken the long walk from the grand staircase. They’d had a bath, and after, Draco had massaged Harry’s leg until it no longer seized up from tension. 

Since having started flying with Krum, Harry had begun thinking about how he was going to get Draco on a broom again. He knew that it would take a while, and had spent a lot of time thinking over the best way to handle it. He’d contemplated just springing it on Draco, but dismissed that, as he’d decided that it could go badly wrong too easily. In the end, he decided that working him up over time, by watching as Krum practiced, or watching as Harry played with Krum, that he might eventually be able to get him flying again. He hadn’t been concerned over it until he’d flown up to the house one of the afternoons, just wanting to catch a glimpse of Draco when he was unaware of being watched. Draco had been sitting in his library, staring at the wall, his expression blank. Unsettled by it, Harry had decided that if Draco was always like that when Harry flew, something needed to be done.

The door opened, and Harry looked up, jerked from his reverie as Mrs Prout announced that dinner was ready. Harry was glad for these private times; next week he would be removing Draco’s Mark, and for ten days, their roles would be reversed. For once, Harry would be able to take care of Draco.

To Be Continued…


	36. Chapter 36

Artwork by the sweet and talented Leochi. Many thanks, my dear. Title: Pain and Comfort

****

Chapter 36: In Which An Unexpected Decision is Made

It was with a smile that Harry stepped through the door of Draco’s library and strode toward him, watching as he became the focus of Draco’s attention. Kingsley and Arthur were waiting in Harry’s old apartments, Unbreakable Vows already taken, and prepared to act as support as Harry burned the stain of the Mark from Draco’s arm. It hadn’t been easy to decide who could be trusted to keep a level head during the procedure, but Harry had chosen Kingsley and Arthur, broaching the subject with Draco a few days prior. Harry was as ready as he was capable of being, and Draco had placed his trust in Harry’s decision for Arthur and Kingsley’s assistance; once Harry had spoken with both men and gained their agreement, he’d established a day both of them could assist, while also giving Draco ample time to heal before Harry’s birthday.

Harry had no idea what to expect from what would happen, apart from the details he’d read in Luna’s notes and books. She had begun the research for Draco many years ago; circumstances had pushed it from Draco’s mind, but Luna had kept everything. Harry thought she had known something no one else did, and that was her reasoning; however, he wasn’t going to question it. Draco had plenty of stores of the potions and salves needed for his recovery; but there was a specific potion that Draco had had to brew to aide in the healing process. The only thing that stood between the start of ten days of agony for Draco and being healthy again and now – _for a good reason_ , Harry reminded himself – was silence as Harry looked at the man he loved and steeled himself to hurt him intentionally. 

Approaching, Harry laid his hand on Draco’s shoulder and offered a smile as he drew it down Draco’s arm and rested his fingertips against the line of his forearm where the Mark blemished Draco’s beautiful skin. He leaned forward, pressing his lips against Draco’s, teasing lightly as their mouths glided together, parting. 

“Are you ready to get rid of this?” Harry asked, pulling back enough to look at Draco.

Myriad masks erected, the shutters obfuscating every emotion behind layers of self-control. Harry blinked, and as though a stiff wind had blown away the impediment between Draco’s true emotions and Harry, the mask dropped; Draco was afraid. The absolute faith in Harry’s ability stood out behind the fear. Valour unlike anything Harry was used to seeing stared back at him, an expression that bolstered Harry’s own confidence in his ability to do what was needed, what he was asking Draco to do. What Draco had agreed and offered to do.

Reaching out, Harry stroked Draco’s cheek, giving a soft reassurance. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

An incongruously lopsided smile spread on Draco’s lips as Harry’s thumb authored his thoughts, giving what speech would never be able to accomplish. 

“Let me sign a couple of letters first. I’d like to get them out before I’m incapacitated.”

“Alright,” Harry said, stepping back.

Draco opened a drawer that Harry hadn’t known was there and signed his name to various parchments, then called Flitter to attach them to Iris, Eris, Ganymede and Achilles. Standing, he looked down at Harry and placed a benedictory kiss on his forehead, one that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. There was nothing sexual about it; it felt final and somehow like a valediction as much as affection, wrenching Harry’s heart. _He’ll be fine,_ Harry assured himself.

“Shall we?” Draco asked. Nodding, Harry took Draco’s arm, wanting contact for as long as it was possible. “Bathroom first, I think. And I’d probably better change my robe.”

As they walked to the bedroom, Harry had the urge to ask, “Would you mind if I dressed you?”

Draco gave him a quizzical look, replying, “You may do anything you wish.”

It was difficult to smile as Harry fastened the buttons of Draco’s robe, his fingers playing across Draco’s shoulders and chest lovingly. He shoved away the worry that this was it, that Draco wouldn’t survive, needing to demonstrate with his hands what making declarations of love would never accomplish. The sense of ease and comfort that they shared remained, despite the impending removal of Draco’s blight; and in the face of the difficulty that lay ahead, Harry breathed out, steadying nerves that bent and twisted like manipulated metal. 

Straightening Draco’s collar, Harry stepped back and eyed Draco’s accepting expression. The sleeve from his bicep to wrist slipped free and dropped to the floor with a muted susurration, a finality that seemed to snap Harry out of his daze. His focus tightened as though that sound had turned the knob to sharpen the distorted picture of what needed to be done, drawing the spell he needed to cast to the fore of his mind. 

Harry stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Draco, and they left their room, appearing in the ante-room of the invalid suite. Kingsley and Arthur greeted them; Mrs Prout stood by the door; and house-elves hovered in preparation as arranged. They took their positions, with Arthur wrapping a supportive arm around Harry as Draco knelt before him; Kingsley dropped to his knees, his wand in the hand he secured Draco with, the other supporting Draco’s left arm. 

Harry inhaled. The spell was on the tip of his tongue, heavy and substantial as he poised his wand against Draco’s forearm, close to the elbow, and began the incantation. The words slipped out like unwanted thoughts, a constant flow, until his wand-tip ignited and emitted a sickly-red flame that mauled Draco’s arm. 

Draco was silent for a long time as the mephitic sweetness of burning flesh and muscle filtered into the room. Harry was barely aware of Kingsley’s deep voice as he spoke to Draco, kept him alert; behind him, Arthur was the cynosure for Harry’s rapidly shifting thoughts as the stink of scorched flesh – Draco’s – penetrated his senses, talking to him as Harry repeated the spell over and over. The house-elves did their best to ventilate the room, and Mrs Prout wiped the quickly-rising sweat away from their foreheads.

All Harry could see was the rapidly reddening skin as it blistered and bubbled under the assault. It parted and blackened around the flames, the once-faded lines of the Mark slowly melting away. As each patch of skin was cleansed of the Mark, the flame glowed silver and Harry moved on, slowly working his way down Draco’s arm. He was aware of the increasing sounds from Draco, his iron-clad self-control something to behold. Kingsley held his arm still as Draco shook; he fought the pain every step, and Harry summoned the determination to rid his love of the stain of Voldemort’s evil, of Lucius’ expectations that should have never been placed on Draco. His voice was level, a cadence unbroken as every reason the Mark should no longer be on Draco rose in his thoughts, buoyed by fierce resolve.

A sudden cry pierced Harry’s concentration, and he faltered, feeling the arm around him tighten in response. The spell died on his lips as he looked at Draco and saw the pained lines etched into his face, and Harry’s arm began to drop. The firm grasp of Arthur’s hand around his own jarred him. Somewhere amidst the hurt that ravaged him with the seconds he watched Draco’s contorted face, he heard Arthur’s voice, felt the grip on his arm, and the intense need to finish returned. 

“Steady, Harry,” Arthur said firmly, as he positioned Harry’s wand again.

The spell crept up Harry’s throat like bile as the wand responded and the flare of the fire took hold of Draco’s arm and continued to consume Voldemort’s taint. It felt as though it was taking forever, each moment passing like a film paused and started repeatedly. Harry risked a glance at Draco’s sobbing face as he repeated the mantra of the spell, his knees feeling weak at the agony he saw so clearly. Draco’s eyes were vacant, their rims red and tight with pain; and Harry looked back at Draco’s arm, listening to Kingsley’s constant undertones of reassurance – unable to make out the words – as he drew the wand lower, trying to finish as quickly as possible. 

Harry’s hand was like seaweed in a current, each movement difficult without Arthur’s support. Without the rhythm of the spell, wrapping him in a trance, he didn’t think he could continue. Draco’s voice broke and cracked like his skin beneath the bilious flame that slowly became silvery and clear as though Harry directed his Patronus against Draco’s arm.

Fatigued, he sagged into Arthur’s hold, his arm falling limply to his side. Kingsley cast a spell on Draco, finally allowing his tortured form to collapse into the Minister’s larger body. Sweat dripped from Harry’s brow and he staggered to get closer to Draco; Mrs Prout wiped it away quickly. He cast a diagnostic charm, feeling as though his tongue was made of lead. The results were mostly positive, but Harry needed to get the first potion in him, clean Draco up and put him into bed as soon as possible.

“Kingsley,” Harry said, voice rough and foreign to his ears, “can you take him to the bedroom? It’s… Eleanor, can you show him, please?”

She nodded quickly, dropping the flannel she’d dabbed at their sweaty foreheads with. They left, Draco’s body levitating before Kingsley, and Harry followed, an arm still draped across Arthur’s shoulder as they took the stairs to the first floor. He’d never been so exhausted after using magic before, the feeling uncomfortable.

Once they’d made it to the bedroom, Harry took Draco with Mrs Prout’s help to the bathroom and cleaned him up. After extending Draco’s arm and securing it so that the bandages he’d applied following the healing salve to the mottled and disfigured skin couldn’t be upset, Harry fed Draco the vile-smelling potion that would make healing in ten days possible. Harry cast another diagnostic charm, and scribbled the results on the stack of parchment beside him. They’d agreed that Harry would keep track of Draco’s status, and even if he didn’t know what everything meant, he was able to document it; Draco would be able to interpret it when he was better. 

Looking around, Harry noticed that the sleeve Draco had severed was gone from the floor. He called Flitter and asked him to bring it to him; he wanted to keep it. It was a reminder of the sacrifice Draco had made for both of them, important. Harry weighed the passage of time in the pained breaths that Draco took. When Flitter returned with the rent sleeve, he stumbled toward the dresser and placed the fine fabric inside his box, and rested his hand against Draco’s. Curious, he looked at the jumbled contents: the barely legible signature card that Harry had attached to Draco’s first orchid, along with his old wand, sat inside. There were other things, but he barely took notice of them, his mind too tired to register anything apart from Draco needing more space if he was steadily going to collect items of meaning throughout the years.

Mrs Prout returned with a tray of food for Harry, and he sat down in a chair beside the bed, watching Draco as he slept. He was ghastly pale. Harry’s stomach lurched, the stench of burning flesh still in his nostrils, but he managed to eat about half of the sandwich. When he’d attempted as much of the meal as he could, Harry put the tray on the floor, cast a charm to monitor Draco’s status, slumped in the chair, and closed his eyes.

****

~*~*~*~

The _chink_ of porcelain against metal startled Harry awake. He blinked rapidly and looked around the room, his eyes settling on the bed. Draco was chalky white and sweat beaded against his forehead as he gritted his teeth and shook.

“Why didn’t you say something to wake me up?” Harry rubbed his eyes and grabbed his wand from the seat to Summon one of the Pain potions. And that was when he noticed that no signs of the Monitoring Charm remained beside the bed. It had been supposed alert him when Draco woke, or if there were any changes in his status before the spell Kingsley had cast on him had worn off. “How do you feel?” he asked as he rose, uncorking the vial and approaching the bed. 

Draco hissed through his teeth – wind between planks of wood – glaring sharply, and asked, “How do you think I feel?” His eyelids dropped, a tight frown making him look like a truculent child. 

“Drink,” Harry insisted, placing the blue concoction to Draco’s lips. A suspicious grey eye cracked open. “For pain.”

Draco swallowed it. “Another.”

 _He can have four a day, for seventy-two hours at the very outside._ The pain, if the book had been correct, was from the nerve-endings and skin growth. Margin after margin had contained notes about how the damaged areas would be raw, but that the salve prescribed would help stimulate regeneration and numb it. Harry Summoned another one, placing it to Draco’s lips. A few moments passed and Draco cursed harshly through his teeth, his pain not seeming to have lessened at all. Harry knew the first few days would be the worst for Draco as his body healed, but he hadn’t expected Draco to need two Pain potions already. Reaching out, he stroked Draco’s face gently.

“Get me a Sleeping draught.” 

Moving stiffly, Harry went to get the potion for Draco and gave it to him. Once he was asleep, Harry documented the relevant information and got into bed on Draco’s right side, being careful not to disturb his arm. He’d have to be awake to give Draco the grey potion in a few hours, but he needed to rest. He could feel it to the bone, the stiffness in his muscles and the way his thoughts scattered like debris from a wall after being hit with a Blasting Curse. 

As he drifted off, Harry thought about taking Draco to the cottage to see the changes he’d made the previous week, and keeping him there all weekend seemed like a good idea. Comfortable, Harry tucked the blanket underneath his chilled feet and fell asleep.

****

~*~*~*~

The feeling of skin wiggling against Harry’s snapped him out of sleep quickly. He blinked, looking around. Draco’s eyes were closed, his face twitching in obvious distress. His hand kept moving against Harry’s side, almost as though he was trying to claw his way out of his nightmare.

Rolling to the side, Harry reached for his wand and woke Draco, offering soothing words that were sliced from the air with each barrage of invective that shot from Draco’s tight lips. 

“Pain potion!” he spat between curses. 

Harry Summoned another of the blue vials and tipped it against Draco’s lips. The contents disappeared as though the touch had Vanished the blue liquid. It wouldn’t take long for the potion to work, Harry knew. The potion was infused with some root or another to help the body absorb it faster, but it didn’t seem to help Draco at all; he lay, panting shallowly against the bed, every muscle clenched. 

Pressing his lips to Draco’s forehead, Harry murmured, “There’s another potion you need to take.” He Summoned it to keep from disturbing Draco further; once he was asleep, he could check the bandages and Draco’s arm.

When Harry un-corked it, Draco turned his head away, with another profanity. “It smells like corpse mould. It’ll make me sick.”

Harry grimaced. “I know. But you need to drink it.”

“I don’t. I’ll heal anyway. And without it I may keep my digestive tract and senses intact.”

“Please don't make me force you to drink it. We talked about this already: you said you didn't want to wait three months to heal.”

Draco scowled. “That was before I tasted the stuff.”

“I know it’s... foul. And if I could do anything about it, I would.” Harry brushed his fingers across Draco’s cheek, trying to coax him to turn his head. 

“You can. You can take it the fuck away.”

Trying to ignore Draco’s disagreeable, uncooperative attitude, Harry said, “Last chance.”

Draco showed no inclination to drink the potion. If it hadn’t been that it would take so much longer for Draco to heal without it, Harry wouldn’t have dreamed of forcing it on him; but the information had been clear: recovery was faster and better using the potion. He placed his hand on Draco’s forehead and tilted his head back.

“Wh—?” Draco tried, surprised, but Harry put the bottle to his lips and poured, effectively preventing any more protests. 

The smell of vomit made Harry retch as he lifted his wand with a grimace and Vanished the mess on the bed: Draco had been right about the potion making him sick. 

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Harry said, Summoning another. “You have to keep it down.” He positioned his hand again, hoping that Draco wouldn’t throw up this time. 

“No, I do—!” The liquid pooling in Draco’s mouth ended his protests. He retched violently, but he didn’t throw up again, for which Harry was grateful. 

Apologies flew from Harry’s lips amidst gentle kisses to Draco’s temple and forehead. “Do you need another Pain potion?” he asked, an offering of peace amidst the tumult of Draco’s pain and inability to cope with it. 

“Yes,” Draco hissed. 

“I really am sorry,” Harry said, after Summoning the bottle that Draco wanted and giving it to him. Seeing Draco in pain was difficult to bear; it was the first time Harry had seen him so weak, and he also understood in more than one way how he’d made Draco’s job difficult during his own recovery. He hadn’t been this bad, though.

Draco accepted the potion, twitching slightly. “Bed’s wet.” As much as Draco was perspiring, it was no surprise.

“I know,” Harry said. “I can’t move you yet. Not while you’re awake.” He wiped the sweat from Draco’s brow and kissed his forehead again.

Draco huffed. “I feel filthy.”

It was unlikely that Draco would be awake much longer, so Harry humoured him. “Do you want to try to have a bath? If you don’t want to walk, I can levitate you – long enough to get you cleaned up and the bedding changed.” He’d be able to get him out of bed long enough to wash him and have the bedding changed as soon as the potion submerged Draco in sleep.

Snarling, Draco demanded, “Do you have the first fucking idea what moving feels like?” He pressed his eyes shut, his panting growing more frequent.

“Not for you, but I know what it felt like for me. I know it’s uncomfortable.”

A torrent of foul language left Draco’s lips, and Harry tuned out the continued streams he felt would require a decade-long drought to dry up. If Draco felt anything like he had when Ginny’s spell had been removed, Harry was more than aware of how badly it hurt, how much any movement taxed the system. Draco finally passed out in the middle of a complex sentence; it would have been humorous under any other circumstances. Harry breathed out in relief and carefully waved his wand, lifted Draco from bed and guided his limp form to their large bathtub. 

While he carefully washed Draco, keeping his arm out of the water, Flitter changed the bedding. Getting him back in bed was easy enough. There had been a few times when it seemed like Draco might wake, but he thankfully stayed asleep. Settled in bed again, Harry changed the dressings and applied the salve after cleaning the wound. It was disgusting to look at; pale skin that looked like misshapen clay with livid red and black outlines stared back at him.

Draco yelped in his sleep, as Harry bandaged his arm. He cast the diagnostic charm again, feeling better about the results. Draco’s blood pressure was still high, but nothing indicated that Harry needed to involve a Healer or deviate from the care plan he and Draco had discussed. Making the appropriate notes, Harry slid back into bed and bided his time in the uneasy stirrings beside him. It wouldn’t be long before he had to feed that potion that looked like a liquid ghost to Draco again.

****

~*~*~*~

Another of Draco’s nightmares tore Harry from sleep. He snatched his wand from the bedside table, waking Draco. “It’s okay. Just a dream. You’re safe,” he said softly, stroking Draco’s hair.

Draco scrabbled for his arm, then passed out. His breathing was laboured for a while, then slowly returned to normal as Harry held him as closely as he could manage without upsetting his arm. Harry supposed that Draco was dreaming about the Room of Requirement; watching as fire had eaten into his skin must have rekindled some of those old memories, tormenting him as he lay in a haze of pain and whatever the potions were doing to his mental state. Tenderly, Harry pressed a kiss against Draco’s cheek and waited patiently.

When it was time to give Draco the potion again, Harry put his hand to Draco’s forehead. A protesting moan came, and Harry tipped Draco’s jaw open. Draco made a pathetic noise in the back of his throat.

“Shh. I know.” Harry poured, comforting as much as he was able with apologies and brief touches. 

Draco cursed weakly after he retched; thankfully, he didn’t vomit. Harry sent his Patronus for Eleanor, requesting food for both of them.

“Pain potion,” Draco demanded. 

“I can’t give you another one yet. You’ve taken all four of them today.”

Draco spat some profanity that Harry didn’t catch. “Just get me a bloody potion.”

“You need to have your soup first.”

“I need a pain potion, not soup!”

“I can’t give you another one yet. I just told you that. And you need something in your stomach. I’ve already sent for Eleanor, so you haven’t got a choice. I’ll give you a sleeping draught after you eat.”

“I need a pain potion!” Draco shouted. Then, lowering his voice, re-asserting his self-control, he said, “Potter. Pain potion. Now. It’s not going to hurt me. Unlike my fucking arm.”

Harry hesitated for a moment. He knew that Draco knew the effects and actions of the potions they were using better than he did, and he had to trust Draco’s ability to think like a Healer despite the pain he was in. He had read enough about the damned things to know that the on-list maximum dosage was cautious, and that it was _relatively_ safe to let Draco have another one, but the pain was obviously much worse than Draco had foreseen, or he had grossly overestimated his pain tolerance, or both; he couldn’t but be concerned, and recognised grimly that monitoring the situation carefully would be crucial. If it came to it, he would have to enlist another Healer or a mediwizard to oversee Draco’s pain management.

“Will you eat if I give you another one?”

Draco exhaled harshly. “Works better on an empty stomach. Potion first.”

Trusting Draco, Harry said, “Alright,” and Summoned another of the blue potions. Mrs Prout arrived with dinner shortly after Draco had swallowed what comfort he could get from the liquid. Three spoonfuls of soup was all Draco could stomach; then he demanded his Sleeping draught. 

Harry ate, made his notes, and applied more of the salve to Draco’s arm. It was the constant flow of routine motions that allowed Harry to stay the worry until he closed his eyes and sank into the sheets. He needed to be nearby. Harry wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if something happened and he wasn’t there. 

And he refused to saddle anyone else with the task of feeding Draco that horrible potion. He didn’t much like Draco’s attitude about it, but there was nothing to be done for it. Harry wouldn’t have been able to sleep with Draco’s constant twitching and fretful sleep anyway, so he lay awake, trying to relax.

When it was time for the next dose, Harry attempted to give it to Draco while he was sleeping, since that had been working. Stirring at the smell, Draco protested forcefully.

“Stop moving!” Harry chastised; if Draco made his arm worse, Harry wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his temper in check. He’d accepted the snapping because there was nothing he could do to prevent it, and he knew Draco didn’t mean to be an arse about it. People dealt with pain in different ways, and Draco apparently had no pain tolerance whatever in his current condition. 

“Stop trying to force-feed me that stuff!” Draco snapped waspishly, batting the potion from Harry’s hand. The vial thudded against the floor heavily, its contents spreading over the dark carpet, leaving a pale stain. Flitter appeared instantly to clean it up.

“Don’t be childish about it. I don’t want to make you drink it, but I have to since you won’t have it willingly.” Harry Summoned another.

“It’s fucking vile!” Draco snarled. “And it makes me feel like shit in ways that even my fucking arm doesn’t!”

“I’m sorry, Draco.” Harry paused. “Would it make you feel better if I tried it, too?”

One bloodshot eye seemed to peel open as Draco directed a look of loathing at Harry that he hadn’t seen since Hogwarts. “No, it bloody wouldn’t.” He closed his eye, muttering that he wasn’t prepared to put anyone through it.

Harry inhaled. He pressed the lip of the vial to Draco’s mouth, met with a tight line. Draco even tried to shift away, jolting his arm in the process. A yowl of pain split the silence. 

“Stop trying to move, please.” Harry lifted himself and placed a gentle kiss on Draco’s forehead. “You only have to take it three times a day for the first few days; you know that. Then it’s only once a day.”

Nothing Harry said seemed to make any difference. Draco whimpered pathetically, keeping his eyes closed, as if ignoring Harry would make him go away or stop trying to give him the potion. 

Harry carded his fingers through Draco’s damp hair. “Just – don’t move. It’ll be easier.”

Draco huffed, making it clear that he felt it was easy for Harry to say. 

“I’m doing my best. I don’t want you in pain or uncomfortable.” And then something occurred to him. He Summoned two more potion vials. “Here. Drink this.”

Draco eyed him suspiciously. Harry pinched Draco’s nostrils, waiting. When Draco gasped, he slowly emptied the contents into Draco’s mouth as he sputtered and choked around the nasty concoction. 

Apologising profusely, Harry put another vial to Draco’s lips. “Pain potion,” Harry reassured him. Draco wheezed, an accusing, wounded look on his face that ripped Harry apart. “It is.”

Draco was a peculiar greyish colour, his pallor matching his eyes uncannily. Harry checked Draco’s status, jotting down the appropriate notes and sent for more food. His sense of time passing was erratic and hinged on when Draco was awake and when he was asleep. 

“Are you alright? Apart from the pain in your arm? Is there anything else I need to know?”

Scowling, Draco retorted with that tone of corrosive disdain, “Some sadistic bastard keeps making me drink something that tastes like a corpse shat it and makes me feel like there aren’t words in any human language to describe. Or is that outwith the realms of your required information?”

Stung, Harry apologised again, which only seemed to aggravate Draco more. 

“How about the fact that the Pain potions have stopped working and the Sleeping draught makes the flashbacks worse?”

“You don’t have to be a prat about it,” Harry replied, trying to compose himself.

“Didn’t stop you,” Draco snapped harshly. 

“You’re right,” Harry admitted, attempting to avoid antagonising Draco further. Mrs Prout arrived with their food. “You need to eat.”

Draco spat another vituperation. 

“I’m not arguing with you. You’re eating,” Harry stated coldly. Mrs Prout left the tray to Harry; he asked her to wait. Harry shifted, attempting to help Draco into a position better suited to eating. “Relax. I’m going to shift you just a bit so you can eat this.”

“Don’t touch me!” Draco panicked. 

“I’m just moving your head a bit. Calm down.”

“I don’t want it!”

“You don’t want anything. But you _need_ it. You’ve barely eaten for the past two days, and that’s not healthy. You wouldn’t leave me alone about eating, so deal with it.”

Draco tried visibly to reassert his self-control, before speaking. ”I want my fucking arm to stop hurting, and feeding me things that make me throw up doesn’t help with that. Nor do the stomach cramps I get after vomiting, so if you have a spark of humanity, you’ll take the bloody stuff away!”

“You haven’t vomited for almost a day.”

“And when did I last eat?” he asked, his tone suggesting he was speaking to someone suffering from mental damage, rather than his lover.

Harry scowled. “Three mouthfuls of soup isn’t eating.”

“Not eating means not vomiting. That works from where I’m lying.”

“Well, the sadistic bastard is going to eat.” Harry Summoned the calming draught. “Try the calming draught instead of the sleeping draught. Eleanor is going to sit with you so I can have a bath and eat.” 

“I don’t need a fucking calming draught. I’m in pain, not hysterics!”

“Might help you relax, though. And you said the sleeping draught was making the nightmares worse. If you want it, Eleanor will be happy to give it to you. Just try to get some rest. I’ll just be half an hour.”

Draco shot him a sour look as Harry rose from bed. Once Draco was asleep again, Harry would be able to bathe him and change the dressings.

When Harry returned from his bath, Draco was asleep, issuing discontented mumblings as Harry cleaned and bandaged his arm. Leaning in, he placed a kiss to Draco’s temple. “Shh. Go back to sleep,” he said, an unfamiliar scent invading his nostrils.

He turned to look at Mrs Prout. “What did you give him?”

Flustered, she replied, “The green potion; he insisted.”

Harry stood and made a proper note of the potion from the vial on the table next to Mrs Prout. “I’m sure he did. Thank you, Eleanor. For sitting with him.”

Mrs Prout left quickly, appearing oddly uncomfortable in Draco’s sickroom in comparison to how she had been in Harry’s, and Harry settled in again.

**~*~*~*~**

“Give me the green potion,” Draco demanded. Cold sweat coated his brow and plastered his fringe to his forehead. He was still ghastly pale, with hectic spots of colour on his cheeks, eyes slightly glazed and bloodshot.

“No. You’ve already taken more Pain potions than you’re supposed to. And you can’t take that one again for another thirty-six hours.” 

Draco gave Harry a filthy look. “It’s the only thing left that works.”

“No. I’m not giving it to you. I’ve already told Eleanor she’s not to give you any other potions, either.”

Draco’s internal battle not to say something awful in response was clear to Harry. “Then get me my grey case from my library.”

“Eat and I’ll bring it to you,” Harry said.

“Not more bloody soup.”

“You haven’t eaten for a few days. What else do you think you’re going to eat?”

“I don’t care as long as it’s not bloody soup.”

“There aren’t that many choices,” Harry grumbled, his patience waning. “Fine. If I send for Eleanor and something that isn’t ‘bloody soup’, then you’d better eat. I’ll get your case when she arrives. Where is it, and are there any spells on it that I should be aware of?”

“My library. Just a combination lock. Have Flitter fetch it if you’re worried.”

“I wasn’t worried. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to get a nasty shock as soon as I tried to touch it. I don’t know how you protect things.”

One weary, cantankerous eye opened. “Ferociously.”

“I... you know what I mean.” Harry sent his Patronus for Mrs Prout.

“Just bring the damn’ case, Potter.”

“Flitter!” The house-elf appeared. “Bring Master Draco’s grey case from his personal library.” Harry turned to Draco as the elf disappeared. “What’s the case—?”

“Mrs Pansy Boot is in the cinnamon morning room for Master,” Flitter interpolated.

“Inform her that it’s inconvenient and that I’ll owl her in due course,” Draco said. 

Harry put his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I’ll go. I’ll tell her you’re working or something.” He knew it would be entirely too suspicious if Draco didn’t greet Pansy.

Draco muttered darkly.

“Flitter, tell Mrs Boot I’ll be with her in a minute.”

**~*~*~*~**

Harry had never been happier to get away from another person; Pansy made him feel uneasy with her suspicious and clever eyes always trying to dig the truth out of him. The removal wasn’t anyone else’s business as far as Harry was concerned. He closed the bedroom door and stopped dead in his tracks. Draco lay with a muzzily delighted smile on his face that was completely at odds with his snarling and sniping an hour earlier.

“Draco, wh—?” Harry approached the grey case and inspected its contents. Muggle hypodermics, ampoules of serums, and pills, which had once clearly been neatly-ordered, were scattered haphazardly within it. It was obvious that Draco had used at least some of them, but Harry had no idea what; and unable to document it, he cursed in irritation. They hadn’t discussed Draco using Muggle medications, and Harry was none too happy with the deviation from the treatment plan. 

“Flitter!” Harry called.

“Yes, Master Harry?”

“If anyone else calls for Master Draco, tell them he’s working and not to be disturbed. If they ask for me, tell them I’m not at home.”

Flitter bowed low and disappeared. Pulling his wand from his robes, Harry checked the time and Draco’s status; it was time to give him that damned awful potion again. 

“Potter?” Draco slurred. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” Harry confirmed, getting the potion for Draco.

Draco’s smile deepened. “Potter.”

“Yeah. Drink this.” He put the vial to Draco’s lips, watching as Draco tried to twist his head to squint at it. Harry was disconcerted by the vision of Draco drugged to the gills on Muggle sedatives and pain-killers. “No, just drink it. Stop trying to look at it.”

There were some things that Harry had come to expect in the past few days: Draco retching at first whiff of that potion was one of them. There was no mess to clean up; for a moment, Harry had thought there would be, though. When Harry changed the bandages on Draco’s arm, he noticed the needle-sticks around the burned skin, and shook his head, frustrated by Draco’s characteristic lack of communication; unless prompted, Draco didn’t share anything. Fatigue stretched its languid fingers around Harry further and threatened to drag him to bed without making the proper notes on Draco’s progress and that he’d actually taken the potion. He yawned, his entire body tense from sleep deprivation and interruptions. Any semblance of patience that he’d had at the outset was a sheen of water on a windowpane, slowly drying up in the sun’s relentless gaze. Harry just wanted things to be normal again. Wanted Draco to be healthy. The last few days had shown that Draco’s arm was healing well enough; the black that had outlined the whole of Draco’s forearm had faded, the new skin still stark and red against Draco’s pale complexion. Like blood staining alabaster. 

“Potter,” Draco said as Harry began to disrobe and get ready to lie down again. 

“I’m here,” Harry replied. 

“Mmmm.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Mnn.” It sounded like a negative to Harry, so he lay down.

“Potter?” Draco asked again, drowsily, after a moment.

“’M here,” Harry reassured him, wrapping an arm around Draco.

Draco yawned. “Mmm. Good.” He seemed asleep for a moment, but then shifted. Harry made soothing noises, but Draco seemed determined to move, trying to fix his fever-bright, unfocussed gaze on Harry. 

When Harry propped himself up on his elbow to look down on Draco, Draco smiled dopily and made a clumsy attempt at patting his face.

“Knew it was you really,” he said indistinctly. 

Something in the tone made Harry’s heart clutch, and he managed to ask, “What?” 

“Mmm?” 

“When did you know it was me?” Harry clarified over rising dread, with a sort of dream-like, distant calm. Draco shifted in his arms and closed his eyes. 

“Always, really. Just… saw him. With my arm. But it was you, really.” That was clearly all Harry was getting out of him: he sighed once more, and then began to snore softly. 

The even rhythm of Draco’s breathing was all Harry heard for a long time, his thoughts muddied and as sickly as the idea that Draco had seen Voldemort while Harry had removed the Mark; that was the only thing he could have meant by ‘him’ – particularly since Draco had, even in his drugged state, made sure to emphasise that it had been during the Mark removal. It seemed reasonable, however distressing the thought was, to Harry that Draco would see Voldemort, as that was who had seared his flesh with a stain that had nearly reached the bone. Harry imagined that if Voldemort hadn’t grown in power so much, Draco’s Mark wouldn’t have been so difficult to remove, that it wouldn’t be leaving behind bunched and deformed skin. 

Sighing, Harry shifted, tightening his hold on Draco as though he would drift away if Harry didn’t keep him close. He needed that balance then, and Draco seemed to as well. Eventually his eyes dropped closed, the need to stay close overriding anything else.

When he woke up, it was to Draco staring at him blearily, and yet somehow happily. “Hey. How do you feel?” He cleared his throat and checked the time, hoping Draco was still docile, and groaned.

Draco smiled. “Potter.” The tone of the greeting was affectionate, one that flowed with a steady current of emotion that would only last as long as the pain-killers. Something about it warmed Harry as much as a physical touch. His lips curved into a smile, then set in determination. 

“That’s my name,” Harry replied, rolling out of bed. Draco closed his eyes, seemingly prepared to fall asleep again. Harry sent for breakfast and got the potion for Draco, who was starting to flop around on the bed, apparently looking for Harry. 

Harry reached out and put his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Draco. Drink this.”

“Mmm?”

“Drink this,” Harry said, putting the potion to Draco’s lips. Obediently, Draco’s lips parted and he swallowed the noxious liquid straight down as though it was nothing more than water. Relief at the ease of feeding Draco the potion blanketed Harry.

Draco looked at Harry, each eye blinking open independently of the other, his expression wounded and accusing, then promptly vomited. Harry resignedly cleared the mess, and Summoned another potion.

“Flitter,” Harry called. When he appeared, Harry said, “Start the bath.”

After Flitter disappeared, Harry managed to get Draco to drink the potion without having to clean up another mess. Draco’s pitiful declaration that he hated being sick wrenched Harry’s heart. Seeing Draco as vulnerable had never really crossed Harry’s mind, but he was looking at it. Strands of Draco’s hair clung to his face where sweat trapped it like Spellotape and his complexion, usually comely to Harry, looked like gravel dust spread out on a dark surface. 

“C’mon. Let’s have a bath,” Harry said, lurching out of bed, with every intention of levitating Draco to the bath. Carrying him would be awkward, and Harry really wasn’t sure he could support Draco fully with the fatigue that weighed him down. Draco had been a horrible patient so far; his general disposition before the Muggle medications had been trying in ways Harry hadn’t anticipated. He felt that Draco could have warned him that he didn’t tolerate pain well; it wouldn’t have mattered to Harry, but at least he would have been mentally prepared for ten days of hell. Now, with the assistance of Muggle medications, Draco had made himself as manageable as possible – which Harry suspected was a way to staunch the never-ending flow of invective that seeped from his mouth like a bloodied wound. It proved just how much he trusted Harry that he would make himself biddable to make things easier on Harry; and Harry appreciated the gesture. 

“Bath. Mm.” 

Harry’s feet hit the floor; the bedding shifted. Draco sat up and tipped out of bed, hitting the floor with a dull _thud_ that sounded like water slapping against skin, before Harry could even reach him. With the speed of a man running from a whip lashing his back, Harry moved to where Draco had landed in a pile of tangled bedding. 

“ _Don’t_ get out of bed unless I’m here to help you.”

The castigation drew Draco’s confused gaze to Harry, his grey eyes sheltered by an owlish blink. To Harry, Draco looked like he couldn’t work out how he’d even ended up on the floor – or what a floor was. 

“C’mon, then,” Harry said, trying to help Draco up; but Draco’s limbs wouldn’t co-operate. With what strength he could muster, Harry was able to get Draco to perch on the edge of the bed unsteadily. “Don’t move.”

Harry dashed around the bed and snatched his wand from the bedside table. 

“Potter.” Draco toppled back against the bed, a drunken squid against the inky-blue of the sheets.

Shaking his head, Harry levitated Draco to the bathroom, supporting him as they moved slowly into the warm water. It felt good to his cool feet. Draco lurched forward, dragging Harry with him. Somehow, Draco managed to trap his arm against the bath wall, frustrating Harry. He dragged Draco close to him, settling behind him to prevent any extraneous movements that could cause harm. But Draco kept trying to look at Harry, trying unsuccessfully to hold himself upright. Clamping down his irritation at Draco’s constant fidgeting, which he couldn’t understand, Harry reached for a flannel and began to wash Draco. 

It didn’t take long for Draco to try looking at Harry again, his body twisting from Harry’s grip as though his skin was soaked in oil. 

“Stop. We’ll be out in a few minutes,” Harry said, continuing. Draco went boneless against him, as though Harry’s voice had been the caressing hand to a much-loved pet. When Draco started fidgeting again, Harry kissed his neck and shoulders comfortingly, trying to be thorough, but also needing to get Draco out of the water as soon as possible. “Are you ready for breakfast?” Harry asked, rinsing Draco’s hair of shampoo.

“Hmm?”

Knowing it was pointless to pursue any more questions, Harry said, “C’mon; let’s get you back in bed.” And with those words, Draco started to slither to the deeper part of the water. Harry reached out and grabbed his shoulders, steering him back to the edge. “This way.”

Like a tree up-rooted, Draco listed in the right direction, his weight crashing against Harry, knocking him onto his arse. The unforgiving mould of the tub against Harry’s backside made him curse violently, the words aimless daggers in flight. Draco collapsed next to Harry in a heap of long limbs, seemingly perfectly content to stay where he was. Harry called Flitter to help with holding Draco upright long enough to dry him off, then took him back to bed.

Mrs Prout had already brought their breakfast, the tray sitting beside the bed. Harry got Draco settled, his eyes closed, almost content, then sat gingerly in the chair to eat. After a few minutes of peace, Draco’s voice cut the silence with an urgent and alarmed tone.

“Potter?”

“I’m here,” Harry replied. Draco tried to reach out, so Harry obliged and touched his hand, letting him know he was there.

Glassy grey eyes sought him out, and Draco’s head finally turned toward Harry, the agitation fading. A look of absolute bliss at seeing Harry spread on Draco’s face like rays of sunlight through storm clouds hitting the ground and chasing away the gloom of rain. While he knew it would be gone again once Draco was better, Harry felt like he was seeing more behind the mask, Draco’s hand of cards tipped toward him, revealing his usually-hidden reaction to Harry’s presence. Open smiles of delight on his face were so rare that Harry would miss seeing them; however, he felt good that even though Draco didn’t show this to him all the time, it was there. That underneath everything, Draco was just as pleased to see him and be near him as Harry was to see and be near Draco. 

“Hungry?” Harry asked, cutting down the length of his question; he didn’t think Draco was capable of following more than two or three words at a time.

The bliss faded, replaced by a look of distaste. 

Harry finished eating and got back into bed. Draco flailed around him like the Whomping Willow, inadvertently hitting both of them with his injured arm. Curling his arm around Draco, Harry tried to get him to lie still. “Settle down. I’m not going anywhere.”

Draco hummed.

“You need to eat when you wake up.” Harry kissed Draco’s head.

After several minutes, when Harry had started to think he had dropped off, Draco wrinkled his nose. “Throat hurts.” 

“Tea?”

“Mmm.”

Harry took that as agreement. “Stay there,” he said, looking into eyes that seemed, at closer range, to have a little more focus than hours prior; the medications were wearing off.

The tea was still warm when Harry poured it, hoping that Draco was fine with Harry’s Assam. He arranged Draco in front of him and held the cup to Draco’s lips so he could sip it. Now Draco’s behaviour the morning after Harry had been cured made sense; being needed by someone felt good, even if the bumps along the way didn’t. Harry knew Draco hadn’t been difficult intentionally, and that was probably the only thing keeping him from snapping foolishly over something beyond his control. That, and the adoration that found its way from behind Draco’s mask, a physical reminder, one that through the trial of the last few days, told Harry just how much he meant to Draco, was reassuring.

Draco made a sound of utter contentment. “Potter.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, placing a kiss on Draco’s neck and shoulder. When Draco had finished the cup, Harry eased him back to the bed and joined him. Intermittently, Draco muttered Harry’s name in his sleep, thankfully never stirring. Once Harry knew he was out, he talked to him, told him things that would otherwise send Draco to the sanctuary of his library to avoid engaging in a conversation about emotions and thoughts that didn’t fit into his understanding of the world. But if Draco was asleep, Harry felt he’d at least hear it, and wouldn’t have to deal with the emotional side of what Harry said. Talking gave Harry an outlet, too. The oleaginous feel of growing frustration and tension washed away as he spoke softly. Comfort on all sides embraced him. He fell asleep himself after a time, but woke up only a handful of hours later needing to use the toilet. He didn’t call for Mrs Prout; he wouldn’t be gone long enough – hopefully – to cause any distress. 

When he returned, Draco was sitting up, just removing a needle from his arm. 

“Do you need anything?” Harry asked, realising Draco was somewhat lucid. 

Draco looked up, almost focussed, though the brightness of his eyes belied his air of collected normality. “An explanation.”

“About?”

“Your arse.”

“Our bath this morning was... interesting. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’ll survive.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “I very much doubt that I would have been capable of doing anything to you in the bath.” He selected another hypodermic. 

“We didn’t do anything in the bath. You knocked me over. That’s all.” Draco frowned. “Don’t worry about it. Would you like some help?”

“No. Thank you. You know nothing about this.” Harry shrugged; he’d offered. Draco discarded the hypodermic. “You may dispose of the used ones, if you like. Carefully.” Draco reached for a foil of tablets. 

The amount of medication Draco was using worried Harry, but he didn’t question it; he wasn’t a Healer. He trusted Draco to manage the medications, even in his state. “Are you feeling any better? You’re healing well.”

“That’s a relative term at the best of times. I’m in pain, Potter. A lot of it. I’m not good at dealing with it.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Harry smiled slightly. “Tomorrow you go to the potion once a day.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies.”

“Does your throat still hurt?” Harry asked, using his wand to direct the needles into the bin so he could have Flitter dispose of them later.

“Yes. But not nearly as much as my arm and my abdomen,” Draco replied, speaking with the excessively clear diction of the drunk – or increasingly sedated – as he reached for a bottle of capsules. 

“Would you like some more tea?”

“Yes,” Draco said, his effort on concentrating obvious.

Harry sent for Mrs Prout and approached Draco, taking the bottle from his clumsy hand. “How many?”

“Four.”

“Any others?” Harry asked, after giving Draco the pills.

Looking at the medications laid out on the bed, Draco pointed one of the pre-prepared syringes. “That one.”

The struggle to maintain any semblance of control was obvious; Harry opened the packaging and asked, “Where? Arm?”

“Yes. No. Give it to me,” Draco replied, holding out his left hand.

Draco concentrated intently and finally managed to get a reasonably good stick in his right arm. He was losing control of his left hand, which was not surprising, since he seemed to have put enough analgesia to numb an Acromantula into that forearm, struggling to depress the plunger all the way and to pull the needle back out again. It dropped against Draco’s chest as he slumped back against the bedding. Harry put it in the bin with the others and packed up the case.

“I could have helped. You could have put it in, and I could have done the injection,” Harry said, worried.

“You’re not qualified,” Draco enunciated carefully, but seemed to be losing the battle with the physical languor induced by the drugs he had been so carefully administering.

“I didn’t realise you were, either. Do wizards use Muggle medications often?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes they’re better. And I’m a Healer. Whether they like it or not.” Draco was relaxing by degrees with each moment that passed, the formerly rigid set to his shoulders softening. 

“Whether who likes it or not?”

“Ministry. St Mungo’s. Everyone,” Draco said, his breathing slowing, becoming deeper. He finally slipped into sleep, and Harry used the time Draco was out to run all of the diagnostic charms, make his notes, and have a bath while Mrs Prout sat with Draco. Fortunately for her, he didn’t wake up, but she said Draco had said Harry’s name frequently. As soon as Harry got back in bed with him, Draco rolled into him, saying his name, the sound of ‘Potter’ through soft sighs and keeping Harry at the edge of wakefulness for a long time. If he dared move, Draco made every effort to follow him.

**~*~*~*~**

In typical manner, Ron stood, nervous, his face tinged red. They’d run out of pleasantries, a gap of expectation separating them still, the fragile bridge of compromise brittle before them. “Er, Harry, about the other night. I know it’s not— The thing is, you were right.” Ron sighed. “’Mione and me… we haven’t… sort of like you and Gin, I reckon… things haven’t been right for a while,” he admitted, and then as if he really didn’t want to say what was about to follow that statement, he cleared his throat, his face screwing up. “I still love her, and I want her to be happy. She’s my best mate, too. And it’s not Malfoy’s fault. I reckon he’ll be around for a while, what with you asking him to marry you and all that – but that doesn’t mean I like him. He’s alright, I suppose. Never will understand what you see in him, but if you’re happy with him, then it doesn’t matter. You’re my best mate. And that means if I want to see you, I have to see Malfoy.” Ron shifted uncomfortably. “So, are we alright?” he asked, extending his hand in friendship.

“Yeah, we’re good, mate,” Harry said with a smile, clasping Ron’s outstretched hand. Blue eyes sparkled back at Harry as their hands dropped. Being used to the routine, Harry hadn’t been bothered by Ron’s behaviour; it had been Ron that had felt the need to hide in shame for his drunken tirade nearly a fortnight ago – no one had forced him to stay away. He was glad that Ron had called, though. He looked better, less broken up than he had, and there was a calm about him, perhaps resignation and acceptance, that eased through his words and brief handshake. Harry understood how Ron had felt, the brutal shock of one’s world changing right before one’s eyes, with no hope of altering the outcome. However regretfully Harry looked back on things now, though, there was nothing he would change.

“Listen, tell Malfoy—” 

“Master Harry, please excuse Flitter, but Master is in his library looking for Master Harry,” Flitter interrupted, his tone urgent. 

Various scenarios rushed through Harry’s thoughts. He turned with an apology to Ron, who looked confused, and Apparated to the bedroom. Flitter could take care of showing Ron out. Right now, Harry needed to make sure Draco was alright.

Harry appeared in the library with a loud _crack_. “What are you doing up?”

Draco stood before him, naked. Mrs Prout stood beside him, trying to reason with him, to no avail. Given that she was much smaller than Draco, Harry understood why she had sent Flitter for him. For a moment, Draco was distracted by Harry’s arrival, and Harry nodded an apologetic dismissal to Mrs Prout, seeing her profound discomfort with Draco’s state. She fled quickly, and Harry couldn’t begrudge her for it. She hadn’t deserted Draco when Harry hadn’t been there, and he knew it was strange to see Draco acting like no more than a drugged Labrador, whose owner – Harry, was the best sight since a sun-bathed garden.

“Potter,” came the usual hazy greeting, with a beaming smile. He began to move toward Harry, his steps unsteady. Seeing it, Harry closed the distance and offered himself as support, but Draco seemed to have overtaxed himself; he tripped on his own feet, sinking toward the floor, even as Harry caught him. 

“Yeah. Come on; let’s get you back in bed,” Harry said, drawing his wand. “You’re probably the worst patient ever, you know that?”

“Mmm?” Draco hummed, his arms tight against Harry. Harry shifted his walking stick to avoid poking Draco with it.

It was going to take every bit of concentration to levitate Draco from the library to the bedroom, but Harry couldn’t carry Draco. Draco was taller, and it was awkward; he’d do the best with what he could.

Moving slowly, with Draco twitching around in mid-air, Harry finally got him back to the bed. Even if Draco had been awake for longer periods, he still had no co-ordination and only the most tenuous grasp on reality when he took the Muggle medications; it was vexing and endearing that Draco wanted to keep him close, such a contrast against the way Harry had been throughout his ordeal. Never wanting to demand Draco’s presence if he could help it. 

After shifting Draco off his arm, Harry called Flitter, unrepentantly angry with the elf for disobeying his order after Pansy had called. The elf appeared with a muted _pop_ , its eyes cast down in deference. 

“I told you no callers. I order you not to disturb us with callers until Master Draco is well. You will tell them we are not home. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Master Harry,” the elf replied, bowing. He waited for Harry to dismiss him, and Harry waved his hand in agitation. He undressed and got into bed with Draco, only dimly aware of the routine sound of his name from Draco. He didn’t think he’d ever heard any one person ever say his name so many times in such a short span of time. 

With a film to have some sound, something to let Draco know, by more than Harry’s constant contact with him, that he was there, Harry was able to think about Ron’s visit. Ron hadn’t seen Hermione yet – “I’ll give it a few more days,” he’d said – but he’d asked after her, making sure she had everything she needed. Harry had reassured him that she was fine, even though he hadn’t seen her for nearly a week. But Harry also hadn’t said that. He hadn’t wanted a bollocking for not looking after her properly. Harry had enough going on with Draco in his state, and he reckoned if Hermione had needed anything, he’d have known about it.

Ron hadn’t told Harry what had happened when Ron had seen Hermione and Krum together, and Harry hadn’t asked; Ron would have told him if he’d wanted to share. He was glad that things were relatively back to normal, Draco’s recovery apart, and that would be over in a few more days – the worst of it, at least. 

“N’ver wante’ it,” Draco mumbled in his sleep, his body shifting closer to Harry, even though they hadn’t moved. Harry reached out and pushed Draco’s fringe back, running his hand over Draco’s forehead and whispering soothing words. The soft flicker of the television illuminated the bedroom; and Harry closed his eyes, trying to rest a bit more. Only a few more days, and Draco would be fine.

“I’ll miss that smile when you see me, but I’ll be glad to have you back,” Harry murmured, kissing Draco’s cheek as he settled in after turning off the television. He heard his name again, a contented sigh, and fell asleep, a smile on his own face.

**~*~*~*~**

“Potter.”

Twitching, Harry’s uncharacteristically meditative gaze shifted from the window to Draco. He chuckled slightly, and, with a teasing note, he said, “Call me anything but that today. Please.” He shifted his tray of food to the side of the bed, having eaten enough. It disappeared, to the kitchen, he supposed, at the hand of one of the many house-elves.

After having heard his name every three minutes for days on end, Harry needed to answer to something else for one day.

“What do you want me to call you?”

“I don’t know. I know you don’t like to call me Harry, but just... something else. Or don’t say my name at all. Just for today. That’s all I want.” Harry smiled, as Draco’s brow clouded.

“As you will.”

“What’s that look about?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing.

Draco’s response was to feign ignorance. 

Rolling his eyes, Harry said, “Alright. Don’t tell me.” He smiled, unable to hide his joy at Draco looking better than he had for days. He was no longer ashen and sickly, the usual colour returning to his complexion. Harry didn’t know much about Muggle medications, but he knew that what Draco had been taking was strong, the sort of thing that built a dependency if taken long-term. As much as Draco had been taking, it had been no surprise to see him go through minor withdrawals. Instead of pressing further, Harry turned and gave Draco a proper kiss, one that had been coming for days. “I’m just glad you’re better.”

“So am I. How’s your backside?” 

“I can’t really feel it now. So, fine, I suppose,” Harry said, flushing. 

There was a lull, then Draco asked why Mrs Prout seemed so nervous around him. 

“Because you curse like you belong in a London back-alley.”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco asked, genuinely startled by the statement. Then Harry realised that Draco must have taken ‘curse’ for ‘using magic’, rather than the viperous invective that he had so frequently spat during his convalescence. 

“Before you took the Muggle medications, you...” Harry paused. “It’s understandable why you said it, but you didn’t want the potion, and every time anyone tried to give it to you, you... definitely made them understand quite clearly how much you hated it.”

Draco paled and he closed his eyes. “Exactly what did I do?”

“You threw the potion at her and screamed something vile. You never say anything like that,” Harry explained. It had taken a lot of effort to get the full story out of Mrs Prout; she hadn’t wanted to speak ill of Draco, even though he had been an arse. “I don’t remember everything you said. It was... before you started taking the Muggle medicines, you were in a lot of pain. And I couldn’t give you any more of the potions we had.”

Draco coloured faintly. “I shall have to apologise. I didn’t...” he grimaced, “...do anything to you, did I? I’m afraid I really can’t remember with any real clarity.”

“Apart from knocking me over in the bath, not really. I know you didn’t mean it. It’s fine. You don’t need to apologise to me. I’m just glad it’s over, and that you’re well again.” Harry really didn’t know what else he was supposed to say. Draco had tried to give him a blowjob a few days earlier, and Harry had been hard-pressed to dissuade him. The state Draco had been in, no matter how much Harry selfishly wanted it, hadn’t been conducive to any sexual activities. Watching Draco, Harry saw him scratch at his arm where the Mark used to lie. 

“I’m... I’ve never been a good patient. And I have no real pain tolerance,” Draco said apologetically.

Smiling, Harry said, “I’m just glad it’s over.”

Draco nodded. “It is.” An unconvincing smile barely lifted the edges of his lips. “If you ever decide to divorce me, I think I shall just let someone cut my hand off.”

The statement confused Harry; he panicked and demanded, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It was a joke, P—” He stopped, abruptly. “It was just a joke. Not a very good one, admittedly,” Draco said. “I just won’t put anyone through the ordeal of dealing with me like that again.”

“It’s not that big a deal, honestly. Just don’t... think about it.” Harry smiled, unable to assess what sort of mood Draco was in. Since Draco had finished his food first, Harry turned to him, confident that affection would be an acceptable replacement for words. Rising up, he shifted over Draco, and carefully rested his weight against him. “Is this alright?” he asked, nuzzling Draco’s neck. “You’re not still in any pain, are you?”

Familiar arms wrapped around Harry in answer, and Draco put his nose in Harry’s hair. It felt good, natural in a way he couldn’t remember anything else being. Draco’s hands slipped over his skin, the residue of the healing salve sticking to Harry slightly. An inhale drew the scent of comfort across Harry’s tongue, one which clung like fading sunlight in the west before the gloaming. There was nothing different, or even remarkable about the warmth and freshness of the aroma that came from Draco; he just was – beautiful and tangible in a way that made Harry feel that no matter where he was, as long as Draco was with him, he’d be home. And from that solid embrace, Harry took all that he could. Glimpses into Draco’s insecurity drew Harry’s mouth to Draco’s ear, the need to reassure him on the tip of his tongue. Against the supple shell, Harry spoke softly. “What you did was incredibly brave. And I’m… honoured that you trusted me enough to do that and… see you that way. I’m here, like I was then, and that won’t change. There’ll be no need to have our Mark removed. I—” He stopped, aware that he was treading a thin line, not wanting to overstep the boundary. “I just… I’m glad we can do this again without it hurting you.” _I love you. How can I show you?_

Draco kissed Harry’s temple. “Why exactly don’t you want me to call you by name?” he asked.

Mentally shifting gears, Harry laughed softly. “It’s not that I don’t want you to call me by name… just not say ‘Potter’. It’s a bit silly, but… you said it a lot – _a lot_ – when you were on the Muggle medicines. Of course, I like when you say ‘Harry’ – it always makes me… it gets under my skin, I suppose – but I know you don’t…. I know that’s not what you call me. And that’s fine. It probably doesn’t matter, really.”

“As you will,” Draco acquiesced, looking at Harry. “Show me your notes.”

Reluctant to pull away, Harry sighed regretfully as Draco’s arms released him; he’d missed Draco’s touch. “Alright.” Harry lifted himself carefully from Draco and got out of bed to gather the large stack of parchments. He was quite proud of the notes he’d kept through Draco’s recovery, even if they weren’t full of the medical terms that Draco was familiar with. The interest in medicine that had taken hold of Harry throughout the initial study of the Mark removal had grown into more. It wasn’t just an interest any more; he knew that it could prove useful, and he had no intention of not doing anything for the rest of his life, even though he suspected Draco would be perfectly happy with that. Being idle would drive Harry to boredom, and after having been an invalid for nearly a year, he didn’t want to take his ability to move about and do whatever he liked for granted any more. Harry handed the organised pile that would have done Hermione proud to Draco and waited, watching as he quickly scanned the pages.

“That’s not the traditional spelling of ‘prophylaxis’. Or ‘anaesthesia’.” 

Harry coloured slightly, and sat in the chair next to the bed as a frown weighted Draco’s lips down.

“I seem to have regurgitated rather a lot.”

Harry nodded. “You didn’t want that potion,” came the absent response. Becoming a mediwizard, and what it would mean for both of them, waded the current of Harry’s thoughts. Once started, they seemed impossible to dam, or even slow. Courses for the future sprang up unbidden in his mind like grasshoppers, and Harry wondered what Draco planned to do now, and what he himself should do. The thick sound of parchments rubbing together snuffed Harry’s contemplation, and he looked up. 

Draco’s frown deepened. “You think I was doing it deliberately?”

“No. Why do you ask that? It smelt horrid.”

Shaking his head slightly, Draco said, “I comment on having thrown up a lot, you point out that I didn’t want the potion. It sounds somewhat like a hypothesis of cause and effect.” His attention returned to the papers. “Odd. There’s nothing in the ingredients that should have acted like a regular emetic, even in combination with the Pain potions and Sleeping draught.”

“I think it rather had more to do with the smell of it than anything. I didn’t taste it, though I offered. But you said it tasted like a corpse shat it,” Harry said, reaching for one of the empty vials on the table beside him.

Colouring, Draco said, “I know what it smells like; I brewed it. Why on earth would have thought I’d want to inflict in on you, if you it tasted that bad?”

“I was trying to—” Harry stopped. “I hated that I had to make you drink it.”

“So? No reason both of us should suffer it.” Draco frowned again. “I demanded Owain’s Specific?”

“After you threw the potion at Eleanor, yes. She brought it to you while I had a bath and ate dinner. You wanted it again when you woke up less than eight hours later.”

Draco looked up, horrified. “That could have killed me!”

“Relax, I didn’t give it to you,” Harry said, even though it was obvious that he hadn’t; it just felt like something he needed to add, to assuage Draco’s horror. “I read about what it was. I suppose you asked for it when I refused to give you any more Pain potions.”

“I know you didn’t, I... I’m just appalled that I’d have asked for a second dose.” Draco looked visibly shaken. 

“You were in pain,” Harry stated matter-of-factly.

Draco waved a dismissive gesture, his frown returning as his attention returned to the parchments. “Hmm.”

“What?” Harry looked at the page Draco was on: Muggle medications.

“You don’t actually know what I was using. I’ll need to check what’s left.” 

Needing to explain _why_ he hadn’t been around for that, Harry began, “No. You… Pansy called when you asked me to get the case. I came back and you had already taken the first lot. I did write down the one you let me help with. I forgot about the case, though, because Flitter interrupted when Pansy arrived.”

Draco nodded absently. “I suppose I’d have been easier to deal with at that point, at least.”

“You were fine before that, so long as I didn’t ask you to take that potion.”

Draco snorted. “Well, they seem sufficiently detailed. I’ll provide the outstanding information on the Muggle treatments for you; then you should be able to write it up easily enough.”

“Write it up? For what?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing. 

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “Publication, of course.”

Startled, Harry responded quickly, “I don’t want to publish it. I’m not a Healer.”

“What has that to say to anything? This procedure hasn’t been performed in over a century: the journals won’t care what your professional credentials are,” Draco said. “It ought to be recorded for future use, that’s all. And since you’re the one who did it, it should be under your name.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t want to publish it. You can, if you like, but I don’t want any attention for something I did for selfish reasons. And it’ll be quite obvious who it’s about if I’m writing it,” Harry said protectively. 

“It’ll be quite obvious who the subject is irrespective of the writer,” Draco stated, his eyebrows raised. He shrugged. “If you decline to submit it for publication, so be it. The loss isn’t mine.” Draco put the notes down on the bedside table. “Was Parkinson the only the only one to call while I was indisposed?”

“And Ron. Flitter ignored my order to tell anyone who called that you were working or I wasn’t at home. And that’s when you left the bedroom and wouldn’t listen to Eleanor,” Harry informed Draco, his thoughts pulled back to his notes. He didn’t understand why Draco wanted him to publish it; the notes depicted Draco in a way that made Harry’s protective side flare to life. And Harry didn’t feel, given he hadn’t made up his mind about pursuing training as a mediwizard, that he had any right to publish anything medically related; he completely ignored the benefits to his possible future vocation within the stack of parchments on the bedside table that stared back at him in challenge. Instead of letting the pages mock him, he shifted the focus of his thoughts: he couldn’t go back to working for the Ministry, not after everything that had happened when he had been an Auror. Teaching was out of the question, and working in a shop didn’t feel like something that would engage him enough. The Ministry counsellors would no doubt ask Harry what his future plans were, to make sure he had something apart from living at Malfoy Manor. Harry wasn’t keen on explaining that one to them when they asked, but he’d take that as it came. He supposed he could bring it up with Draco and see what he had to say. Harry’s life wasn’t his alone any more: it was his and Draco’s, and that meant he needed to talk to Draco about big decisions before he made them.

“Ah. What did he do to himself?”

“I have no idea what he did to himself,” Harry said, turned to face Draco. “I haven’t had to punish Kreacher in years.”

“Flitter doesn’t need to be told to punish himself. Nor should Kreacher.” Draco frowned. “Unfortunately, I was the author of Flitter’s disobedience, in that instance.” 

“Oh?”

Faint colour stole across Draco’s cheeks. “I issued standing orders to the house-elves some time ago that we weren’t to be denied to Weasley and Granger except on specific instruction.” Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. “I didn’t think you’d want them included in general ‘not at home’ orders.”

Harry shrugged, a smile moving across his face. “Thanks,” he said earnestly. “I wish I had known that. I didn’t expect Ron so soon, though, if I’m honest. Would have thought he’d have been gone at least a month before apologising.” Draco’s expression requested for more information. “For his behaviour after Hermione asked for a divorce.”

Draco nodded. “He took it rather well, I thought.”

“I suppose, yeah. He didn’t break anything. Unlike me.” Harry cleared his throat, not wishing to elaborate further. He had the key to the door, and any time he wanted to open that path in his thoughts, he’d be able to; there was no point continuing to hold his hand poised to turn the knob when that part of his life was over – a new one had begun for him.

“Presumably Granger is making the necessary arrangements.” Visibly losing interest in the topic, Draco asked, “Has Shacklebolt been here?”

“You mum wouldn’t see him. Eleanor told me that she and Ianthe have been keeping watch over her; she was angry with him and me. I only left when Pansy and Ron called.” 

Draco nodded. “How is your magic?”

Harry thought it an odd question, but he smiled and answered, “Fine. I was exhausted after…” Harry gestured at Draco’s arm. “Kingsley had to bring you to the bedroom. Eleanor and I got you cleaned up, she made me eat, and I went to sleep until you woke me up.” He paused, considering. “Well, actually, I hit the tray of food with my foot and woke up in the chair and you were awake. The Monitoring Charm I had cast was gone when I woke up… That was new. I don’t think I’ve ever been that knackered from using magic before.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose in inquiry. “You slept in the chair. After all the grief you gave me for doing precisely that.”

Realising he’d misspoken, Harry clarified, “I passed out in the chair.”

With a frown, Draco said, “It was intensive and complex spellwork, but you should have been more than up to it. How have you done subsequently?”

“I haven’t had any problems, really. I used magic to get your potions so I didn’t bother you in bed. And I had to levitate you to the bath.”

“So your Summoning and levitation charms are reliable. Have you been practising other spells?”

Harry coloured, his gaze flickering to the door; Draco sighed. 

“I was more concerned about you, Draco. I used my Patronus a lot.” Harry shrugged.

“Transfigure that—” Draco nodded at Harry’s teacup, “—into a spoon.”

Harry fetched his wand and Transfigured the cup; tea spilled over the table, and a porcelain spoon rested on the saucer. 

“A _metal_ spoon.”

Untransfiguring the cup, Harry tried again, successfully replacing his cup with a metal spoon. Draco nodded his approval. After repairing a shattered window and lighting a fire in the grate, Draco seemed satisfied by Harry’s command of those spells. 

“Do try to practise more now.”

Harry nodded. “I will.”

“Good. When did you last swim?”

Momentarily thrown by Draco’s abrupt change of subject, since he failed to see anything emotional about the topic, he blinked and replied, “The last time you went with me. I told you, I didn’t leave. I didn’t want to leave and you have another nightmare with no one to wake you.” Like a brewing storm, Draco’s expression clouded, as he began to scratch as his arm again. Concerned, Harry avoided the topic of Draco’s nightmares. “I’ll swim and walk and fly. Krum’s been good about me flying with him; he said he enjoyed it, even if I can’t keep up with him because of my leg. I just… I didn’t want to leave you,” Harry said, knowing Draco would understand that, as Draco had spent a se’ennight in the same clothes, watching over Harry as he had recovered.

“I haven’t shown you the outdoor pools yet,” Draco said, changing the subject. “Have you time?”

Harry nodded again, wondering what else he was supposed to be doing; his schedule revolved around Draco at present.

“Good,” Draco said. Once dressed, Draco held out his hand to Harry; without a thought, Harry’s extended to meet Draco’s, an odd memory of Draco from the Room of Requirement flashing in Harry’s thoughts before he felt a slight squeeze around his fingers, that he answered with a squeeze of his own, as they began walking.

Through the house and grounds they went, Harry flushing faintly at the open affection Draco was showing, until they reached the vast pools, gleaming clear under the mid-July sun. It was unlike anything Harry had ever seen before: the pools were side-by-side, just a small stretch of grass separating them. They looked more like lakes than pools. Magic surrounded the area, that much was obvious from looking at it; palm trees surrounded one pool and seemed to fit in with the landscape, even though they were in England, not on some Caribbean island. Another was surrounded by snow.

For as long as Harry had been in the wizarding world, there were still things about it that surprised him; and looking at what he suspected was some long-gone Malfoy’s vision of what Nature should look like, if it had taste, made Harry’s steps falter just a bit, his stick swinging in front of him as he balanced again. 

When they stopped, Draco gave Harry an expectant look. Flushing brightly, Harry called for Kreacher to bring his swimming clothes. Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned, watching as Draco’s wand wove into the air, casting the threads of Disillusionment and Imperturbable charms, creating a curtain between them and the rest of the occupants of the Manor.

“I’d start with the tropical one, if I were you. The water’s likely to be cold in the others.”

Undressing, Harry flushed at Draco’s appraising look, as though he were a sculpture at auction. “If you wanted me wet and naked, we could have just had a bath,” Harry said, looking at the water. 

“This is an excellent form of low impact exercise. You’ve been largely immobile for days,” Draco responded, his tone like thorns. He disrobed and walked to the other pool, his shoulders rigid. Harry watched, nonplussed by Draco’s sudden shift in moods, trying to work out what he’d done. That Draco wasn’t open emotionally didn’t bother him; the quick shutting down, without explanation over something as innocent as a joke, did. 

 

Shaking his head, knowing he’d have to work it out soon, Harry tested the water and dove into the warm pool. For a long time, he swam, stopping to float when his leg grew tired. The breeze was cool, but comfortable, sunlight adding to his warmth as he treated it more as a game than actual exercise. Later, he looked up to see Draco lounging in the grass, watching him. 

“Don’t over-tire yourself,” Draco called out.

“I won’t!”

When Harry had grown bored of swimming, he lifted himself out of the water; Draco’s gaze was fixed on him. Harry stretched, a smile creeping across his lips as he saw Draco’s slow blink of arousal. The idea of taking Draco to the cottage and keeping him there for the rest of the week moved through Harry’s thoughts, but he wasn’t sure what Draco was up for physically, and he didn’t want to ask for too much. Roles reversed, Harry understood more and more why Draco had acted the way he had with Harry. Even if it irritated him, his inability to look further than the edge of his nose and immediate needs – and wants – Harry knew that regrets were pointless. The scrutiny levelled at Harry brought a bright flush to his cheeks.

“You’re regaining mass and muscle tone well,” Draco remarked as Harry approached, his earlier strop, which Harry was still trying to work out, seeming to have never happened. 

“I’ve been trying to eat more. I told you I would.” Draco’s fingers twitched with the desire to touch; Harry goaded him in an uncharacteristically pleading tone, “Touch me, then.”

Draco sat up. “Come here.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice; the distance between them disappeared. Draco reached up and grasped Harry’s hips, drawing them together. No argument came when Draco had his fill of tasting Harry’s skin, throat, mouth, and he commanded Harry to lie down in the grass, the little blades tickling his skin as he reclined. Draco’s mouth skimmed his chest and to his hips, running his tongue along that spot that Harry liked. Harry arched from the ground, and Draco’s mouth closed around his cock; sank lower. He carried Harry to the edge of orgasm, his mouth slick and hot against Harry’s length, and without warning, just as it was becoming too much, the sensation shifted. Draco’s hand replaced his mouth, and with spit and a firm grip, he pulled Harry’s orgasm free. Harry’s voice was harsh as he tried to speak, but only sound, muffled through his teeth, escaped.

Harry lay panting, his nerves dancing as Draco’s tongue collected the drops of white from his cock and abdomen. He almost looked disappointed when he’d cleaned away the remains of Harry’s orgasm. His eyes flickered up and he moved up Harry’s body, settling over him as he braced himself against the grass. Harry needed to return the favour, give the same pleasure back to Draco. When their mouths met, he moved his arms around Draco tightly, and rolled, planting Draco on his back. Hungrily he moved along Draco’s torso, to his ribs, hips, and finally his erection.

Harry’s jaw stretched around Draco’s cock; lowered his mouth, trying to make his lips reach the cropped curls at the base, fit Draco into the back of his throat again, like he had in the gallery. It was over when he’d pushed too far. His eyes snapped closed and his throat protested, the muscles jerking angrily at the invasion. A sound like plastic scraping against rock followed the uncomfortable heave of his shoulders; he backed away, his lips and tongue still moving against Draco. Unwilling to give up so easily, Harry tried again, meeting with the same reaction. He hated it; he wanted to give that to Draco again. He stopped and thought if he eased into it, he’d be alright; but that didn’t help. His throat still protested as Draco’s cock moved deeper. Then he heard the one thing that made him freeze.

“Stop.” 

The hand in his hair tightened and pulled until Harry ceased his stubborn attempts. He looked up, disappointed that Draco had stopped him; Harry wanted to give him the same thing again, wanted to hear those muffled exclamations of pleasure, feel the fullness of Draco’s pleasure as he gave it.

“I enjoy it more when you’re not wheezing and choking,” Draco said, his fingers still gripping Harry’s hair. “P—” It took some effort, but Draco seemed to be able to shift his mental gears enough. “ _Harry—_ ” that shudder of delight ran through Harry at hearing his name, “—not everybody can do it. There’s nothing wrong with that. It doesn’t bother me that you can’t. I’d really rather you didn’t injure yourself in trying to.” Draco’s face twitched. “If the taste bothers you that much, don’t do it at all. I can live without it.” Draco pulled at Harry’s hair again in an attempt to dissuade Harry from trying again. 

It took Harry a moment, but he realised that Draco had misinterpreted his reaction; it had been to Draco saying his name, not the taste of Draco’s come, even if Harry was still working to get used to it. “It’s not that… you just—” Harry stopped to pull his thoughts together; arousal made any real thought difficult. “You seemed to enjoy it more. And I really liked the way you reacted to it when I was able to do it.” Harry’s brow furrowed. “I wasn’t… I didn’t shudder because of sucking your cock.” Flushing, Harry continued, “That always happens when you say my name. Feels a bit like your voice just crawls up my skin, but in a good way.”

“Of course I enjoyed it. But I also enjoy other things, and the overwhelming majority of them don’t cause you to choke.” Since Harry hadn’t moved, Draco tugged his hair again. “Will you please come away from there?”

“Tell me what you want,” Harry demanded; if he was going to move, he wanted it to be because he was going to be participating in giving Draco pleasure, not so things would end there.

“I want to kiss you.”

Surprised, but not displeased, Harry braced himself against the ground and moved into position over Draco. The weight of Draco’s hands moved to his back again, pulling Harry closer. Draco spread his legs slightly, trapping his cock between Harry’s thigh and his own body, and began rocking into the firm press of Harry’s leg against him. It surprised Harry, but Draco made no attempt to hold back, to prolong his pleasure. Draco’s breathing grew ragged and his eyes closed as Harry’s mouth moved along his neck and chest, chin, and lips. He watched Draco’s face as he felt the flood of warmth against his skin, enjoyed the open expression.

When their breathing had returned to normal and the sticky coolness of come stuck to them, Draco contrived to reach for his wand, casting a spell to clean both of them off. Draco caressed Harry’s side, his back, and his arse. It was like a circuit that only he knew the route to, slowly working up and down, until he had Harry squirming against his body. Harry’s hips pressed against Draco as a long finger moved from the dip at the base of his spine, between his buttocks. He was glad that Draco wasn’t his patient any more. Taking care of Draco had been satisfying to Harry, but he wouldn’t miss the snapping; not all patients could be that bad, so it wouldn’t hurt to try to be useful, to help people the way Harry liked. And he knew that Draco, if he should ever choose to be a private Healer, would need help. Draco was clever, but he lacked the compassion to soothe a distressed patient – apart from Harry. At the outset, Harry hadn’t been comforted by him at all; that had been a later development as their relationship had changed. 

“Been thinking about training. As a mediwizard,” Harry blurted, his thoughts easing their way out when Draco moved his hand. There was a brief pause, then Draco’s fingers found their way back to Harry’s arse, slowly moving over Harry’s anus. He stopped, applying light pressure against the tensing and relaxing muscle. 

 

“Have you?” Draco asked as Harry shifted his hips to increase the friction that Draco was holding back. Harry moaned softly, kissing Draco’s chest. 

“Not right now, obviously,” he said, at length.

He was shameless in his desire to be touched, for Draco to have his fingers inside Harry, or to fuck him. It had been too long; Harry had been spoilt by Draco’s voracity for him. And just as the tingle of sensation began to rise, Draco’s finger retreated, the pressure changing again.

“What were you thinking about it?”

Harry groaned in protest against the removal of the stimulation. “I need to do something, don’t I? And I’m not going to be an Auror any more. And... I was interested in the things I read about before removing the Mark. So I thought maybe I should try it. To be a mediwizard. I don’t think I could be a Healer – I haven’t got the marks for it – but I could be a mediwizard. And if you did want to become a private Healer, well... you’d need help.”

“You don’t need to define your vocation around mine.”

“I’m not,” Harry said, just as Draco’s fingers began to move back toward his arse. “It’s just a benefit.”

“And you don’t _have_ to do anything at all. It’s not like we need you to have a salary.” 

Harry moaned again, Draco’s finger pressing firmly against him, but not enough to penetrate him; and he wanted that, wanted to be spread open as Draco glided in and out of him. “It’s not about a salary,” Harry said, trying to stay focussed. 

“Then what?” Draco asked.

Reaching back, Harry wrapped his fingers around Draco’s wrist to still his movement. If Draco expected a coherent answer, Harry couldn’t be distracted by the welcome sensations. “I need to… earn something. On my own.”

“Well, I should think you’d be good at it. If nursing me didn’t put you off, I doubt anything would. Patients really don’t get a great deal worse, unless they’re actively trying to kill you.” Draco considered for a moment. “Which is unlikely to happen to you.”

Harry only had a brief moment to consider whether someone had tried to kill Draco before the slow teasing began again and he gave up restraining Draco’s wrist. Sensation overpowered thought; Draco would do whatever he wanted, regardless of Harry’s inability to concentrate with the attention Draco accorded his body. 

“Even if I had gone back to the Ministry, they’d have never put me at a desk job. Harry Potter working a desk and not catching Dark wizards just isn’t… something they would accept.” Harry scoffed, concentrating on the words he needed to say. “I’m supposed to do everything, and give everything, but I can’t… do everything the same way I used to. It’s enough to work, still. And if I don’t do well in the training, I’ll... do something else. But when I thought about the Health team at the Ministry and how I haven’t really been interested in much of anything... it made me think,” Harry said. “I tried to think about other things I could do, and none of them really seem to fit with who I am now.” He paused a moment. “I hadn’t really expected to bring this up today. Not when I hadn’t even really made up my mind yet. But... I thought it might work.”

Draco kissed Harry’s head, his fingertip finally penetrating just a fraction, not nearly enough. “I have no doubt that it will, if it’s what you really want to do.” Moaning, Harry dropped his face into Draco’s shoulder. He was helpless to the touch, wanting more. Draco’s reaction was impossible to hide, and Harry suspected he wouldn’t want to anyway. And Harry couldn’t hide his, either. “If you wanted to be a Healer rather than a mediwizard, I could coach you. Or find somebody else, if you’d rather not have me.”

Running his lips across Draco’s neck, Harry said, “Now’s not a good time to talk about it,” as he tried to get more of the tantalising touch.

Draco’s hand retreated again, and Harry was nearly past the point he could wait. “It’s as good a time as any, and better than most if you plan to try for this academic year.” 

Laughing in frustration at the loss, Harry groused, “That was cruel.”

Draco gave Harry a quizzical look.

“I don’t…” Harry sighed. “Would I be able to decide later? Or do I have to choose one now?” 

“One what?”

“To be a mediwizard or a Healer.”

“It’s the same foundation courses. If you want to begin training this year, apply for a place as a student mediwizard; the course is easier to access. You can apply to convert at any point,” Draco said, dipping his finger into Harry’s arse, only flirting with penetration.

How Draco expected Harry to have a coherent conversation under that merciless teasing, he didn’t know. “Then I’ll apply,” Harry said, his voice full of tension and heavy with the need for Draco to stop toying with him. But he wouldn’t broach the subject of believing himself incapable of becoming a Healer.

“Good. The deadline has expired, of course,” Draco commented.

Discontent that the pressure had gone from a gentle probing to a light tickle again, Harry grunted, “Then I’ll have to wait.”

Draco snorted.

“What?”

“They hold a few places back for late applications,” Draco explained, “and there are always drop-outs. Get your application in before the end of the week. You’ll need sponsorship from a qualified Healer, of course, and evidence of practical experience would be helpful. And the fact that you’re the Boy Who Lived—” Draco’s finger shallowly penetrated him again, “—won’t hurt.” 

Moaning, Harry shifted again, impatient. “I don’t want to use my name.” He paused, collecting himself. “Will you sponsor me? You don’t have to. And I’d understand if you didn’t.”

“Cretin,” came the endearment Draco had adopted for Harry, punctuated by a firm tap against Harry’s arse. 

“And don’t call me the ‘Boy Who Lived’,” Harry managed, his tone sour. He hated the appellation, particularly coming from Draco. “I’m not a boy,” he continued, rolling his hips against Draco and nipping the taut line of Draco’s neck with a soft moan. “And I’ll be a Malfoy at the end of the year.”

Draco removed his fingers completely. “You’re certainly not a girl, unless my grasp of anatomy has slipped.” 

“Oh, it hasn’t slipped. But I think I stopped being a boy when I started making the right decisions.” Draco gave no reply, his inscrutable gaze fixed on Harry’s flushed face. Tired of waiting, Harry demanded, “Now, are you going to keep teasing my arse or fuck me?”

Stifling a laugh, Draco replied, “Yes.” His fingers resumed their exploration. “Send your application direct to Healer Knighton.” 

Patience tested beyond measure, Harry gripped Draco tightly and rolled them over, the blades of grass licking against his back as Draco rose above him. In invitation, Harry spread his legs, instructing, “Remind me later.” 

Draco pulled his arm from underneath Harry and propped himself up, looking down. Harry, ready to return the favour of all the caressing taunts, reached out and ran his hands over the spots he knew would garner a reaction. A delighted expression illuminated Draco’s features at Harry’s boldness, his hand slipping over Harry’s thigh and between his legs to recommence the game. 

Harry growled, “I haven’t had you in ten days. We can drag it out later.” But that didn’t deter Draco, his self-control seemingly unbreakable. “Please. Just fuck me.”

“Here? Or would you rather I take you to bed?” Draco asked, serious. 

“How about I take you somewhere?” Harry suggested; he had the perfect place. They could fuck on the croquet lawn, in the pools – wherever Draco wanted some other day – but Harry wanted them to be comfortable.

A look of surprise, but not displeasure, came over Draco’s face. “If you like.”

Sitting up, Harry reached for their wands and wrapped his arms around Draco, concentrating on the cottage. It was raining when they arrived, the sound hitting the roof and echoing through the house. Harry dragged Draco to the master suite and pulled him down as he sank to the bed, the colours just like their room at the Manor.

“No more playing,” Harry said. “Fuck me.”

To Be Continued…


	37. Chapter 37

****

Chapter 37: Time Heals All Wounds

A sound of protest came from Draco, his teeth releasing their hold on Harry’s neck, as he commanded, “Put those back, you git.”

Harry did as he was told, Draco’s arse twitching around him. A happy sigh came from above him, and Harry playfully wiggled his fingers, earning a shiver. Draco still supported himself, never relaxing enough to bear his weight against Harry, which was slightly irritating, but there was nothing to be done for it.

“I missed this,” Harry said, still panting. 

“We’ve never done this before,” Draco corrected him with a slightly grumpy tone that Harry didn’t understand. 

“Missed you, then. Touching you. Feeling you,” Harry clarified. 

Draco hummed, seemingly mollified. They lay in companionable silence for a long time, and eventually Draco shifted, leaving Harry feeling oddly bereft when they were no longer connected. The soft tingle of a Cleaning charm swept over him, and closing his eyes, Harry replayed the day in his head, a small smile of contentment tugging at his lips. It had been a lovely day, Draco’s strange reaction to Harry’s comment about being wet and naked apart. He opened his eyes slowly and looked out of the large window, listening as the rain pelted it like some out of sync group of Muggles playing drums, and wondered something.

“I have a question. You’re not going to like it, though,” Harry said, turning his attention to Draco.

Their gazes connected. “Go on.”

“Earlier, when we were at the pools, were you upset because you like me being wet and naked but didn’t like that I pointed it out?”

The question was met with a long look, one that Harry thought meant Draco wasn’t going to answer him. Then Draco finally said, “You were right. I don’t like it.” He held his hand up, effectively silencing the comment Harry was about to make. “I don’t... You have to realise that I am... not comfortable with transparency. I wasn’t raised to it, and the experiences of the latter half of my life certainly haven’t... trained me any differently. I trust you implicitly; don’t start doubting that. I just... I know that you can read me better than anybody else, and I’m glad that you can, I really am, but... I don’t particularly like having it pointed out to me.”

Harry nodded solemnly, having caught the slight inflection shift in Draco’s tone when he mentioned being trained; it was unfortunate that Draco hadn’t lived, but instead had been treated like no more than a soldier, his own life driven by duty in a way that Harry’s hadn’t been, but similar enough to make him feel a pang of guilt and pity for his past treatment of Draco. Duty, training, and expectations had been heaped on both of them stiflingly, it seemed. “I’m sorry. I’ll remember that.” He sighed, needing to explain himself. “I didn’t mean anything... by it. I just... I was joking, and you just sort of shut down on me again.”

Colour rose on Draco’s cheeks as he looked away, unable to make eye contact. “I’m sorry.”

Not wanting to make Draco any more uncomfortable than he already was, Harry untangled his limbs and rose, crossing to the window seat. Settled, he reassured Draco, “It’s alright. I just needed to understand. I’ll keep messing up if I don’t.” He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Do you want some tea?”

“That would be nice, yes,” Draco replied.

“Do you want to go home or stay here tonight?” Harry asked, after ordering Draco’s tea and a glass of wine for himself, looking out over the water as it took nature’s assault. 

“As you prefer.” 

Harry smiled and turned to look at Draco. “Do you have things you need to take care of at home?”

“No.” Their drinks appeared. 

“Then get comfortable.”

It was intriguing to see Draco visibly relax against the bed; he had no idea if it was him, or their surroundings, or what, but he liked it. Draco needed to relax a bit more, as far as Harry was concerned. And warming a bit, now that he’d made it through asking Draco something without him shutting down, and seeing Draco alone on the bed, Harry rose and returned to his side, resting against the headboard. 

“How’s your arm?” Harry asked and took a sip of his wine.

The mild appreciation Draco had accorded Harry as he’d approached the bed shifted to distaste as his gaze moved to his arm. “Still irritated, apparently.”

“I can send Ruby for the salve,” Harry offered, not wanting Draco to be uncomfortable.

Draco shrugged. “It isn’t bothering me.”

Even if he suspected Draco was capable of a certain level of mendacity with him, a smile flickered on Harry’s face as he declared, “You’re going to have a real dinner tonight.”

Pale eyebrows rose. “Am I, now?”

“Yes. More than just half a sandwich.”

“A whole sandwich?” It was clearly a joke.

Chuckling, Harry said, “If you want. I haven’t actually ordered anything yet.”

“It’s your house, P— It’s your house; order whatever you please.”

Harry felt a flicker of disappointment at Draco choosing to avoid using his name at all, but quickly regained his composure. He supposed if he heard it too much, it wouldn’t have the same effect.

After a relaxing bath, Harry ordered their dinner, something deliberately chosen to be eaten by hand; Harry wanted to watch as Draco licked the sauce from his fingers in a provocative manner that reminded him of Draco’s mouth against his cock. Neither of them was in any physical shape for more sex that day; if they hadn’t spent the better part of a fortnight both stressed – and Draco drugged beyond comprehension – it would have been another story. Harry imagined that he could spend the whole day in bed with Draco, wallowing in sex and intimacy. It was much more than that: being with Draco made Harry feel good, accepted and appreciated for who he was, without needing to look or a play a part than ran counter to what he believed. He could be himself, flaws and all, and Draco would only ever see the man he loved, not some shell of what the ‘Saviour’ of the wizarding world should look and act like. 

Wiping his hands and flashing Draco a grin at the sensuous licks to his fingertips, Harry set his plate on the bedside table; it disappeared immediately. To Harry’s surprise, Draco was still eating, but he suspected it had more to do with the teasing than the need for food. Harry didn’t mind; he liked watching Draco in all his grace and ease. Everything about the man was irresistible, even the closed-off sides of him that he only let Harry see when he could drive himself to it; it made Harry want to dig deeper and learn more.

There were a few things Harry needed to do now that he was able to get around under his own power; his thoughts eased away from Draco’s fingers long enough to gather himself for a conversation.

“I need to go to London.”

“Alright,” Draco acquiesced. “Right now?”

“No, not now.” Then he explained, “I forgot Ron and Hermione’s birthdays.”

With a shake of his head, Draco said, “I’m sure they recognise that you had other things to worry about. And I did take the liberty of making some small arrangements.”

In surprise, Harry tilted his head to the side. “You did?”

Adopting an expression that indicated his opinion of Harry’s woolly-headedness, and how obvious the answer to his question was, Draco replied, “Naturally.” 

“That was before…” Harry stopped, moved by Draco’s thoughtfulness, considering Draco didn’t like Ron or Hermione. 

Draco shrugged as he cleaned his hands and set his plate on the bedside table. “There was a reasonable chance that you wouldn’t be in a position to do anything yourself at the time.”

Harry didn’t know what to say; anything overly emotional would distance them, and he wasn’t ready for that; they’d had a lovely day, Harry’s earlier mistake apart. He dropped his hand atop Draco’s, running his fingers over the back side. Draco turned his over and caught Harry’s hand properly.

“I’d still like to go,” Harry said. “I want to get something for Eleanor. If we go before lunch, there shouldn’t be a lot of people. Maybe tomorrow?” Then realisation dawned like a Horntail’s fiery breath. “Oh, sorry. I… if you don’t want to go… I know you’re still my Healer and it’d be… inappropriate.”

Draco smiled faintly. “I’d be neglecting my duty of care if I didn’t supervise your first trip out of a controlled environment under your own power.”

In response, Harry chuckled, trying to ignore the comment on duty; Draco had an answer for everything. When they lay down to sleep, after eating and finishing their drinks, Harry slightly inebriated, he curled his arms around Draco and listened to his steady breathing. They both fell asleep to the sound of rain still playing its erratic melody against the cottage. 

The middle of the night found Harry awake as Draco shifted his arm against Harry’s back. He turned to look at Draco, who was sleeping deeper than Harry had seen for a while. Moving, he propped up to watch Draco for a moment as scant moonlight cast reflective shadows from the droplets of rain on the window across Draco’s face and chest. The urge to kiss him drew Harry closer, and he pressed his lips against Draco’s, smiling at the contented sigh that followed. 

Rising from bed, Harry stretched and asked Pearl for a glass of water as he went downstairs and leaned against the doorframe to stare at the lake. Pearl, possibly one of the ugliest house-elves Harry had ever seen, appeared beside him with his water. He accepted it, hoping that his grimace didn’t offend the thing; it was stuck with Harry for the duration of his life, after all. 

The breeze that rushed past was cool and angled the rain that fell against the stairs so that it leapt at his feet. This sanctuary took all of the stress of the last week and discarded it by the wayside effectively. Draco seemed to be back to normal, his voracity for Harry unchanged by the absence of sex for a week. Earlier, Harry had asked to be fucked, but Draco’s choice had been something else, something deeper and more meaningful than just a quick shag. At Harry’s behest, Draco had watched Harry intently, penetrating him without any preparation; his hips hadn’t moved with the need to thrust for his own pleasure, just the slow movements as he’d cradled Harry’s cock in hand and drawn his palm and curled fingers around Harry until he’d come again. 

And as Draco now seemed wont to do, he had licked Harry clean, and asked to be inside him again, as though Harry would deny him anything. Along with that, he’d asked Harry to finger him, and Harry had been more than willing, teasing him slowly as Draco had moved in and out of him. He smiled, his arse pleasantly sore, and drank from his glass. When he’d finished his water, Harry took the empty glass to the kitchen and set it on the worktop for Pearl to fetch later. 

Making his way upstairs, a sound from one of the portraits in the sitting room drew Harry’s attention; one of the mistresses was speaking to him, but he didn’t know which one, as they liked to move between each other’s canvases. Approaching the dark frame, Harry asked, “Sorry, what did you say?”

“His father would have never done anything like that,” the woman said wistfully. She was half-hidden behind something that he couldn’t make out in her world of paint and canvas. He knew who she was, and this was the first time they’d spoken. Clara had been Lucius’ mistress, but apart from that, Harry knew nothing about her. The other mistresses had seen to it that he knew who she was for some reason; he thought because she always hid when he was around.

“His father never would have done anything like what?” Harry asked, uncertain what she was referring to specifically.

“Make love like that.”

“Oh.” Harry flushed. The idea of the portraits watching them as they had sex was still very odd to him. He was glad that Draco had bound the portraits at the Manor to the gallery. 

“He seems nice.”

“He is,” Harry said, smiling. The portraits at the cottage and in the Manor gallery seemed oddly taken by the relationship between them, their questions never-ending, and unsolicited advice frequent. 

“He must love you to distraction.” Her tone was mournful, reminding Harry of Luna.

“Why do you say that?” Harry inquired as she shifted in her frame. 

“To touch you so tenderly, speak to you so caressingly... he must. It must be... heaven.”

Smiling, Harry confirmed, “It is.” He paused, having been given an odd level of insight into Lucius’ liaisons with this woman; though he didn’t understand why Draco’s father had desired someone other than Narcissa. He was biased, he knew; Draco was more like Narcissa than Lucius. “He’s nothing—” A sound from the bedroom caught Harry’s attention, and he looked at Clara’s shadow. “I have to go,” he said and flickered another smile at her. 

Back in the bedroom, he lay down and wrapped around Draco, murmuring endearments as he closed his eyes and pressed a gentle kiss to Draco’s back, who seemed to be falling into his former deep slumber, now that Harry had returned to bed.

In the morning, Harry woke, blinking owlishly at the gaze centred on him. His lips curved into a smile as he mumbled, “Mm. Morning,” placing a kiss on Draco’s chest and shoulder. “Did you sleep alright?”

An affectionate stroke of fingers came against his back, and all of Harry’s nerves reacted. “Yes. Did you?”

“Mmm. I was awake for a while, but I got back to sleep.” Harry pressed another kiss to Draco’s chest. “I remembered that Krum invited us to the World Cup, but I told him you wouldn’ be going. That was before your arm, though, and I just forgot about it. ’Ermione told him about us.” Harry yawned, still half-asleep. 

Draco nodded.

“I really appreciate you making arrangements for their birthdays. They never said anything to me about it.” Harry smiled. “I don’t mind that you do it, you know. And I don’t expect you to tell me everything, but if it’s... something I need to know about, like Flitter’s orders, will you let me know? I don’t want the elves torturing themselves because we contradict each other’s orders.”

Looking at the top of Harry’s head, Draco said, “It didn’t occur to me to tell you. I’m surprised you didn’t realise that I’d have given them that order, really. You must know that your friends are always welcome at the Manor.”

A flush stole across Harry’s cheeks and he shrugged. “I never really thought about it.”

“Potter, they’ve been the closest thing you had to family for most of your life. What possible reason could I have for not extending the hospitality of the house to them to the very fullest extent?” 

“You don’t like them?” Harry reminded him with a chuckle.

“You do. My views are immaterial.” Draco shifted slightly. “Besides, their... loyalty and service to you over the years outweighs any other considerations.” He shifted again, moving Harry back to the crook of his arm. “I told Granger months ago that she’s welcome to make her home at the Manor for as long as she pleases. I said the same to Weasley.” Draco paused meditatively. “His reaction was far more entertaining.”

“Oh?” Harry asked, amused. “He doesn’t... he’s never really got over the money thing.” Draco shrugged. “And the Manor’s like a palace.”

“It isn’t, really. The house in Monte Carlo’s closer. The one in St Petersburg actually _was_ a palace, originally. The Manor’s just home.”

“Mmm,” Harry agreed. The slow strokes against his back continued, lulling Harry back into sleep’s arms. He smiled faintly. “Glad you... Draco.”

**~*~*~*~**

“Ouch!” The burning feeling faded slightly, just as Draco appeared in the sitting room. “What the hell was that?” Harry asked, still shaking his hand to rid himself of the uncomfortable sensation. Draco just gave him an inquiring look. “What spell did you use?” Harry clarified.

“Oh, it’s just a locating charm.” Draco’s expression became assessing. “Who was it?”

“Who was what?” Harry asked, irritated, his attention on his hand. There were no marks, or any indication that he’d been hurt by whatever Draco had cast. It was a ludicrous thought, but he couldn’t help checking to see if it had left any damage. He’d felt like he was holding a handful of nettles. 

“Someone has clearly irritated you. Who was it? And, equally to the point, what did they do?” 

“Oh, Gin. She was at the shop when I went to talk to George,” Harry said, taking a seat.

Draco’s expression went flat. “Was she?”

“Yeah. She was pissed off that I sent the furniture to the Burrow, blamed me for her being the reserve Seeker and not the star, and then said how ungrateful I was to her family for all they’d done because I was asking George to pull those pastilles from the shelves.” 

George had been tactless, but Harry knew there was nothing about Potter’s Paralysis Pastilles that had been malicious. He hadn’t even considered the use of his name on the pastilles important, or that they mimicked his former condition offensive – in bad taste, yes, but not actually _important_ – until Draco had fixated on it like a centaur eyeing the nighttime sky. He had pointed out that the joke item was not only taking advantage of Harry, but that Harry not doing anything about it meant that he didn’t respect himself enough to put a stop to it – and nobody else would do it for him. Explaining to Draco that he’d met with solicitors in the past about the dolls and colouring books and chocolate frog cards seemed to fall on deaf ears. Praie. Praie was capable of doing _something_ , Draco had said, insisting that it didn’t sound right to him that Harry’s name and likeness could be used in such a way without his permission. Harry had finally agreed to meet with Draco’s solicitors, but he’d refused to have Praie’s people deal with George. In fact, if Harry hadn’t chosen to stop there when they’d gone to London, he’d probably not have seen the new product for a while yet. Of course, given that Draco had taken him to Claridge’s for lunch, then had snogged him senseless, for hours, on a bed of blue moon rose petals, Harry supposed he wouldn’t have argued with Draco about anything at that point. It had been the first time anyone had cared about the abuse of Harry’s name, and Harry hadn’t known what to do with it but acquiesce when Draco had made the point so clearly with his strength of feeling about the matter. Harry didn’t care as much, given that his name would be Malfoy at year’s end, but he supposed humouring Draco, if only to show that Harry had respect for himself, was better than doing nothing. In seven years, the persistent use and misuse of his name had become so frequent that Harry had scarcely noticed it any more – Teddy’s constant companion notwithstanding. 

“I suppose at least this time she didn’t try to convince me she still loved me, or get me to sleep with her,” Harry continued. “Ron tried to get her to belt up, but she kept going. Even said something about how you’d drop me the moment someone better came along, since you did that to some bloke named Leo.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “Leo dumped me, actually. Well, sort of.” 

Shrugging, Harry said, “Doesn’t matter. I told her at least I never raised my wand against her, and that she should be happy she’s a Seeker at all, and that at least she could still fly for longer than twenty minutes without her leg bothering her. And that she didn’t have to walk with a bloody stick.” Harry’s expression darkened, bitterness creeping into his tone. “I thanked her for it, though. Thanked her for my limp and my happiness and watched George toss her out. Was a bit like Percy. Said when she could act like a Weasley, she could come back.”

“I could buy the team and make her _not_ be a Seeker any more.” Harry looked up, moved by Draco’s desire to make Ginny’s life hell, but he couldn’t square it with his conscience to allow Ginny any opportunity to level allegations – however true they could be – against Draco. “We could make them stop wearing that appalling colour, too.”

“You know, I love that about you, but what are you going to do with a Quidditch team that you wouldn’t even watch? She’s bitter enough right now.” Harry sighed; he had no desire to make life difficult for either of them by condoning Draco’s suggestion. “I’m just glad that I didn’t feel anything when I saw her. Not like last time: I just wanted her to get away from me as fast as possible, but I couldn’t go anywhere; I was trapped because of the chair, and now... I could, and it was easier to ignore it and forget it. I don’t even know who that person was today.” Shifting for comfort, Harry added, almost as an afterthought, “George was fine – sincere – when I asked him not to sell them. He apologised, and they started taking them off the shelves. Praie’s people were good.” A faint, satisfied smile was on Draco’s face, and Harry relaxed a bit, letting the day’s events float away as if smoke. Draco joined Harry on the sofa, the decision to watch a film made. “Your mum looked well when I saw her. And Kingsley was with her. And Ianthe,” Harry remarked as Draco pulled him into their usual position to watch films in the sitting room.

Draco smiled again. “She reminds me of my governess.” 

“Does she? Who was your governess?” Harry was glad that Draco had taken to Keith and his wife.

“Madam Trent. Yes, very much like her. There’s a portrait in the old schoolroom, I think.” 

Thinking that there was only one reason for a portrait to be on display, Harry asked, “Oh, is that why you went to school? She died?” 

Draco gave him an odd look in response. “No. She’s still alive, as far as I know. She continued to teach me until I was thirteen; then I was handed to tutors.” Visibly a thought occurred to Draco. “Potter, you don’t actually think I had holidays, do you? I attended the preparatory school in the mornings like everybody else, but I studied under Madam Trent in the afternoons and at the weekends. And through the holidays, obviously. And then when I started at Hogwarts, Madam Trent was let go, and the tutors took over my education during the holidays.”

“Oh,” Harry said, squeezing Draco’s hand; a look of mild perplexity answered him, but Draco said nothing. “I didn’t have holidays, either. I mean, I did... but I wasn’t allowed to do anything. Did you... enjoy it, at least?” 

“‘Enjoy it’? Well, no. Not particularly. I didn’t mind it, either, though, for the most part.”

“Yeah, but you got to use magic and stuff, right? I mean, I suppose I would have rather had a tutor than going to Mrs Figg’s house, or dealing with Aunt Marge.” Then Harry laughed. “Probably not, though. I suppose looking back anything would have felt better than that. So... do you want our kids to do that?” It was an honest inquiry.

Draco shrugged. “I hadn’t really considered it.” 

Tentatively, Harry asked, “No expectations like us...?” 

Draco appeared disconcerted. “Well, Scorpius will have to learn to manage the estates. The others should, too, really, since they’ll also inherit sizeable properties. I’d hope to have them taught the basics of deportment and etiquette, and some of the more usual accomplishments.” 

“That’s not what I mean... those things are fine... I just... don’t want to put impossible expectations on them.” _Not like us,_ was the unspoken thought that accompanied the statement. _No Prophecies and Dark Lords or Vanishing Cabinets._

“I doubt there’s anything our children won’t be able to achieve.” Draco paused as Harry smiled. “I suppose they’d find those things easier at Durmstrang or Beauxbatons.” 

Harry nodded. “I’d thought about that, actually. Bill said Victoire’s going to Beauxbatons.”

“It’s a fine school,” Draco said, nodding.

“Ho— too many… That would be too much for them.”

“I wasn’t sure whether you’d want them to go to Hogwarts.” 

“I don’t... no.”

“I shall write to Madame Maxime, then. I suppose they’d appreciate a new wing for the library.” 

Tilting his head to the side in incomprehension, Harry said, “I don’t understand. I mean... someone explained to me that when magical children are born that they’re automatically on the list for the school closest to them. But we’re not in France, so... we’d have to write to her to arrange it? And you just... want to make a donation as a... what? To show you’re sincere about Beauxbatons over Hogwarts?” 

Draco shook his head fondly. “Whoever told you that was wrong. You’re not guaranteed a place at any of the principal schools, and if it were simple geography, you’d have gone to White Horses, not Hogwarts.” Harry laughed bitterly, wondering if he’d ever make sense of everything. Draco regarded him for a moment, his expression questioning Harry’s thoughts, but he didn’t push. “And the donation is... merely a show of goodwill.”

“I’ll let you handle that, then.” Harry wondered if Kingsley had ever thought about having a Ministry liaison for Muggle-raised witches and wizards, so they’d at least have a better working understanding of the world that they’d be entering into. He thought it unfair that he’d gone eleven years of his life, having odd things happen to him, but never understanding any of it until those Hogwarts letters had arrived. 

“We can afford the fees for any school we choose, and I have to admit that my name will be less of a handicap at Beauxbatons than the others in Europe.” 

“Your name isn’t a handicap. Not to me,” Harry declared, his expression demanding that Draco answer in understanding. He understood that Draco’s past had made him a pariah to most of the wizarding world, but when it was just them, he didn’t want Draco to think like that, not when Harry didn’t look at those actions as a measurement of who the man holding him was. It made him wonder how many times he’d have to say it – when he thought that he’d shown it by being willing to accept Draco’s name when they married – to make Draco believe it.

“It’s not you I’m concerned about.”

“To hell with the rest of them. I don’t want our kids to go to Hogwarts for a lot of reasons, and I don’t really want to talk about them—” _because I know you don’t want to hear them_ “—right now. I just… I think it would be better for them. Bill said they haven’t got houses, and students have more than just Quidditch. He said they have racing, and I know you don’t fly, but your mum said you liked racing, not Quidditch, when you were a kid. And I’ve never been to France… So it could be good. And they’ll get to do things I never did, and have an opportunity to learn things I didn’t, if they want. They deserve the best we can give them.”

Draco regarded Harry for a moment. “Alright.”

Harry talked for a while longer, telling Draco about his plans to attend the World Cup with Ron. Draco offered his tent, but Harry thought it might be a bit more opulent than Ron would find comfortable for the few days they would be there. Harry knew he’d need to make an effort soon to extract a promise for Draco to try to fly, or at least watch – something to begin slowly getting Draco accustomed to the idea of being on a broom again. He’d miss having Draco wrapped up around him, but Harry could manage for a few nights on his own. And since Draco had given him a Muggle mobile, for use when he was around Muggles and couldn’t send a Patronus, Harry reckoned he could use it – once he worked it out – to his advantage. And Draco’s.

After many glasses of champagne and dining naked, Harry fell asleep as Draco massaged him: he was still having his daily physiotherapy, though in recognition of his progress towards recovery, Draco had reduced it from twice to once in the day. The following morning found Harry alone in bed. He dressed, and made his way to the sitting room, stopping when he heard Hermione’s voice.

“You don’t want me bothering him about it, and if I don’t talk to you, I’m going straight to him, because you’re going to tell him anyway, or at least the bits that won’t upset him, and I trust you to deal with Ron, too.”

Harry couldn’t see Draco’s expression, but his tone was poisonous as he sat down. “Well, talk, then.”

Hermione drew a deep breath, and then faced Draco steadily.

“Ron’s not entirely to blame in things, and I think I might have made Harry think that. I genuinely care for Ron, but I haven’t been happy for a long time, and I couldn’t pretend any more. He avoided the conversation—” she said, casting a pointed look at Draco, “—when I tried to bring it up months ago. I admit I shouldn’t have let things with Viktor go as far as they did before I talked to Ron, but they did. I don’t are about Ron any less, but I couldn’t be unhappy and watch him unhappy, either.”

“Give me some credit, Granger. I know Weasley wasn’t wholly to blame. I think you were an idiot for marrying him in the first place, but I suppose you were too young to know better.” Hermione gave Draco a distinctly stubborn look and then subsided, presumably in response to the look on Draco’s face, which Harry judged from his tone as likely to be extremely withering. “Granger, in what world not involving brain injuries and possible use of Unforgivables, could you _possibly_ have been compatible with him as a life partner?” 

“We were different then,” Hermione insisted. When Draco snorted, she paused and added, “Okay, not much different.”

“Not _that_ different. The incompatibility was there all along. I might not like either of you very much, but I’m not sufficiently inhumane as to wish you on one another in perpetuity. No, you and Krum are far better suited. And I can think of half a dozen girls offhand who would be far better matched with him. Brainless to the last, I might add.”

Hermione sighed. “Same reason as Harry stayed with Ginny for so long. He thought it would get better,” she said meditatively.

“Potter was under the influence of borderline Dark magic. Do not even attempt to draw a comparison between your situations,” Draco said. Harry could hear the anger in the sharp edge of his tone. “And I’m more than half inclined to argue that she harboured a borderline psychotic obsession with him from childhood. He was merely naïf and easily led by people who should have known better.”

Harry shifted in the doorway, unsure if he should leave. Hermione’s expression indicated a view that Draco, too, had harboured a similar psychotic obsession, but she refrained from commenting. “He wasn’t always! I think there was a time he really did love her.”

“I loathed Potter with every fibre of my being, Granger,” Draco stated flatly in response to Hermione’s expression. “It was not misunderstood or deeply repressed desire and respect. Believe me. I would know.” He ignored Hermione’s comment about the feelings Harry had at one time felt for Ginny. “I thought he was an insufferable attention-seeker, and the teachers’ favourite to boot. Of course, I was thoroughly foul myself,” he added, as if that somehow mitigated Harry’s perceived attention-seeking and the teachers’ admittedly less-imaginary preferential treatment. “But Dumbledore’s manifest favouritism is wholly immaterial, and Potter’s relationship with Ginevra Weasley is even more so.”

Tense, Harry watched their interaction. Hermione finally took a seat and sighed. “Just tell him that I didn’t mean to hurt Ron. And that I know Ron didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“He knows that perfectly well. Weasley’s the one to whom you need to communicate contrition.” 

Hermione nodded, her expression pained, then asked, “Did Harry get him drunk?”

“Yes. Disgustingly so. I won’t regale you with the specifics, but you may believe me when I say that Weasley was devastated. However, he has at least now grasped the material point.” Harry watched Draco shift in contemplation. “I strongly recommend that you reconcile yourself to him as his friend in short order. Before his mother becomes involved. And before you speak to him, I suggest you have some plan in mind for the custody arrangements.” Draco nodded in the direction of Hermione’s stomach. “Your mother-in-law will certainly agitate for full custody.”

Hermione’s face was flushed, her discomfort and embarrassment clear to Harry. “I’m perfectly aware of that; I’ve already spoken to Miss Dewey, but I can’t afford her fees,” she said, the hitching breath and warped tone indicative of the tears welling in her eyes. “I’ll retain someone else. I’ve already contacted Miss Dewey to inform her…” The words ended abruptly as Hermione’s fingers shoved the evidence of her distress aside.

“If you think for one heartbeat that I will allow you to make as disastrous a decision as the decision to disinstruct one of the best firms of legal representatives in Europe, you have plainly lost your mind,” Draco said, his tone withering once again. “Her fees are immaterial. She will represent you, and you will stop allowing your blood pressure to rise.”

There was a long moment of stunned silence where Harry thought Hermione’s pride would consume the acceptance of Draco’s offer; if she refused, Harry would take matters into his own hands. Sniffling, and wiping at her eyes again, Hermione said, “Thank you, Draco.”

From where he stood, Harry could see how uncomfortable Draco was, apparently bracing himself to say something he might regret. The tension in his shoulders became pronounced as his spine straightened. “Granger. You are a guest in my house and a dear, loyal friend of the man with whom I have every intention of spending the rest of my life. He would not be alive today but for you. I owe you a debt that I will never be able adequately to repay, and I will therefore be at your service for the remainder of my existence.” Draco paused, and Harry could hear the scowl in his voice as he spoke. “I would be obliged if you would refrain from requiring me to point that out to you ever again.”

Feeling elated by Draco’s statement to Hermione, Harry grinned broadly. Hermione was still crying, her face red. Draco shook his head.

“I’ll send Mrs Prout to you.” He stood, and Harry backed away, closing the door lightly. He knew Draco wouldn’t want to be cornered about what he’d said, so Harry Disapparated to Hermione’s apartments and waited for her. Draco had left the mediwizard training application strategically in a place that Harry would find it, and Harry thought that Hermione would be perfect to assist him with filling it in. It also gave him the opportunity to apologise for being an arse about seeing her and Krum together.

That evening, after having been prodded for an hour about listing removing Draco’s Mark on the application, and finally capitulating, Harry left and went flying with Krum and Mrs Prout’s twins, Henry and Roland.

Over dinner, Hermione elected to point out that Harry hated roses, her gaze flickering to the vase of blue moon roses arranged as a decoration. Narcissa politely inquired why, leaving Harry red-faced and flustered while Hermione explained that Ginny had liked them; she had no qualms about sharing details about Harry’s former fiancée with his future husband and mother-in-law. Eventually Harry looked at Draco, seeing nothing more than his usual composure, but he felt he’d need to do something to show Draco that he didn’t mind that they had been arranged for the table, or that Draco had arranged for a bed full of the blue-hued petals, just so he could stare at Harry naked, in rapt fascination. Harry’s face had remained red as though paint covered his face the whole time Draco had watched him, naked and admiring. It hadn’t been about sex, but Harry had been hard and aching to the tips of his toes for Draco. When snogging had left their lips raw, they had lain together, Draco holding onto Harry as though he might disappear.

That day in London had been incredible. That Draco had paid for the best suite at the hotel for lunch and a few hours of snogging had spoken volumes, and Harry had no intention of seeming ungrateful for the gesture, not when he had no complaints about the flowers and their meaning; it was just another one of the things that Draco had done to show his love. Smiling to himself, he decided that he’d ask Mrs Prout to put some petals on their breakfast tray in the mornings. 

That evening, while Harry was watching a film, Draco entered the sitting room and gave him a kiss on the head as he passed by. Before Draco could lift his hand from Harry’s shoulder, Harry grabbed it, pulling Draco to him. The possibility of pushing the right buttons made Harry thread his fingers through Draco’s hair. Draco had tensed briefly in surprise, quickly regaining his composure and allowing Harry to take what he wanted. Taking. And giving. He wanted to give everything, hoped that Draco felt it in each touch and kiss. Needed Draco to feel it in each touch and kiss.

Harry eased away, smiling as he teased Draco’s bottom lip with his own. A faint flush coloured Draco’s cheeks, and he couldn’t make eye contact with Harry. Of no mind to force the issue, Harry reached out and ran his thumb across Draco’s cheek, his gaze fixed on Draco’s lips.

“I will be glad when she is solely Krum’s problem.”

Harry chuckled. “I’m sure Krum will be, too.”

Huffing, Draco said, “Krum doesn’t know what he’s letting himself in for.”

“They’ll work it out along the way,” Harry said. “I don’t think anyone ever knows what they’re getting themselves into.” Experience had taught Harry that much; he had never thought Ginny capable of what she had done. When Draco gave no reply, wanting to give Draco the space he seemed to want, he dropped his hand to his lap. “Go on. You’ve got something you’re going to work on.”

Throughout the duration of the film, while Draco worked at the desk in the sitting room, Harry’s attention shifted. A smile spread on his face, and he called Flitter to have Mrs Prout send some of Draco’s tea up; he’d got used to the flavour during Draco’s recovery, nothing comparing in taste to that awful potion.

Logically, Harry knew that Hermione wouldn’t have intentionally hurt Ron; he also knew that Ron adored her. But, as much as he disliked watching their marriage dissolve, he also had to admit that they fought all the time – no less than they had at Hogwarts – and that Hermione tended to mother Ron. He’d heard enough about that – and experienced it – over the years to know that it was damned irritating. That Hermione had chosen to seek Draco out instead of Harry had surprised him, though. Absently, Harry looked up and smiled, his attention moving back to the film.

“What’s wrong with the film?” Draco asked, when his tea arrived.

Startled, Harry said, “Nothing.” His brow furrowed; he had no idea why Draco would think something was wrong with it.

“Alright.” Draco smiled briefly. “You just don’t seem terribly interested in it.”

“Had something else on my mind. And it’s not anything I have to pay attention to, really.”

Draco nodded, taking a sip of his tea, as Harry’s attention reverted to the film, a soft smile on his face. He was happy. Everything was going well, and they were both healthy: all was right in Harry’s world.

They made an early night of it. Harry was being discharged from Draco’s care the following day, and he knew it was going to be trying. Draco, he suspected, didn’t want to go, either, but it had to be done, if they would ever be able to be open about their relationship, without Draco being struck off or sent to Azkaban.

**~*~*~*~**

The bag of caramelised pecans shifted in Harry’s hand as he approached Draco’s desk, trying to smile. “I got something for you. I didn’t know if you had any left,” Harry said.

Draco looked up, a smile on his face as he saw the bag. “I didn’t. Thank you.” Sensing that something was off, he rose from his chair and took the bag from Harry’s hand, placing it on his desk.

Harry’s smile faltered. “Are you busy?” Draco shook his head. “Good,” Harry said, wrapping his arms around Draco and Disapparating to the cottage.

There was only a loud _crack_ to signal their arrival, the impulsive choice to remove Draco from his library seeming like a poor idea as Harry sucked in a breath. His Apparition had always been erratic and rough; his state of irritation only made it worse, and being used to Draco’s smooth control made the centre of his chest ache as though he’d just been hit with a Blasting Curse. Surprised, Draco blinked, his hands following Harry’s automatically as they began to tear at the buttons on Draco’s robes. But Harry didn’t want help; he wasn’t in the mood to be teased, or to have Draco put every effort into making sex a journey. He swatted Draco’s hand away with more force than necessary as he sought the skin beneath the fine fabric.

To Harry’s mind, there was only one destination at that moment. He needed to have sensation replace thought; it drove his uncooperative fingers against each button. Right then, Harry hated the bloody perfect tailoring and the charms to prevent the material from ripping under his clumsy attempts at freeing Draco from his clothes. Too many buttons, too many ties, impeded touch from skin.

Draco’s robes scratched against Harry’s fingertips as he threaded the buttons through their holes. Indistinct noises of irritation followed until he reached the next, tickling his lips with each exhale. Somehow, Draco bore it with the patience of a tree, long accustomed to being at the mercy of the elements; in this case, an elemental Harry, needy and forcing breaths from his own lungs that he hadn’t been able to inhale fast enough. Draco’s lack of objection drove Harry onward. One by one. Each little piece rotated around its thread-joint. Harry moved to the next. Draco’s calm agitated him; nothing could get to him. He was a stone in a river; Harry the water parting over him. Only Harry felt more like a caged animal trying to get a piece of meat dangling before him. It was out of reach, the slow teasing of rhythmic breaths enough to make him fumble even more with those bloody buttons. Justice for not saying what he wanted: Draco couldn’t read his mind. 

But Harry imagined Draco had a clear idea of the intent behind the unrelenting manipulation of his robes. The words would come eventually; but not until Harry had the warmth of Draco’s body against his. Not until he could feel the solid ridges of muscle contracting under his touch; not until he could feel Draco’s heart beating against his fingertips as they moved over his chest and nipples. Draco’s subtle responses tickled Harry’s impetus to continue; his control dampened none of the need. If anything, it made it stronger. While Draco was not cold like a statue, Harry wanted to be the chisel driven into Draco’s surface, to break him down, shatter the smooth façade. Piece by piece, he imagined fracturing it for no other reason than it gave him pleasure.

In his mind, as he clumsily worked his way along Draco’s torso and abdomen, every touch eased the tension. The frustration and irritation that he’d spent hours enduring to be discharged formally from Draco’s care had been tedious; fforde-Fane had tried to push and bend Harry to admit to the on-going relationship. Each time Harry had refused to confirm the allegation, the questions had grown blunter. His perfidy and stubbornness had served a purpose: it finally had got the appropriate signature on the parchments releasing Harry as Draco’s patient. The need to have Draco fuck him jerked within him. A heady sensation that seemed to move from the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair. It spread out, making his entire body tingle. If he could feel, he wouldn’t think, and the long interviews with their invasive questions and speculation would be banished. All he needed were a few moments of peace. And Draco gave him that. The rest, the fever it induced, would break when he had what he wanted.

Heat flooded Harry’s cheeks. Before Draco, he felt savage and feral; the air of composure unbroken yet by Harry’s hands shoving the severe black robe from Draco’s shoulders. Even the sound it hitting the floor felt like a goading whisper to Harry, urging him onward. Draco wasn’t objecting to Harry’s need to unwrap the layers. Harry’s need to be the chisel etching his mark into Draco compelled his hands. Now that the robe had been dispensed with, Draco’s scent moved through Harry’s nostrils with each inhale. It was fresh and inviting, calling to him. Biting his lip to refrain from running his tongue along Draco’s chest and neck, he returned to his mission; to communicate his needs.

This was a language that Draco understood. Touch. Harry’s touch; the raking of his nails along Draco’s skin as he tried to get ties untangled; the colour of his cheeks; his unsteady breathing. It gave Draco the picture he needed and seemed to admire from his position. Harry envied that calm. He was such a creature of reaction and action that thought only came in the wake of events, after they had unfolded. But Draco was balanced, immovable. And when it came to Harry’s needs, Draco sought any way to give. At least he could reason that he’d thought this through; he hadn’t known what sort of reception he’d receive, but Draco had seemed to know that looking at each other from across that bloody huge desk wouldn’t be enough. 

Right then, he gave with Harry’s force. Patiently, Draco waited as Harry pushed the remaining garments over his hips and bunched at the top of his boots. Impatient, Harry dropped to his knees and pulled at them, distracted by Draco’s cock. He wanted it, too. Looking at it made his arse tense. Knowing it would be in him tugged his arousal. It twisted through him; the vision of the delicious V where groin met thigh made him swallow. Draco’s body was beautiful, hard lines and sculpted flesh. His cock hung enticingly, thickened and elongated by arousal. Harry’s tongue darted across his lips. Tasting it would have been enough to dampen the furious drive, but Harry shoved his desire aside. His hands sought Draco’s legs, feeling the smooth fit of the leather around Draco’s calves as he manoeuvred his boots off, one by one. 

Harry rose, toeing off his own shoes, leaving Draco to deal with the rest of his robes. In his haste, Harry only undid enough buttons to pull his own robes over his head, dispensing with delaying things any further. They hit the floor as Harry shoved his boxers down and pulled off his socks. Now they were both on even ground, bared to the other, skin illuminated by sunlight. Vulnerable. Open to each other as they weren’t with anyone else. 

“Fuck me,” Harry commanded, drawing closer.

“Where?” Draco asked.

“I don’t care,” Harry replied, encircling Draco’s waist; then demanded Draco’s lips against his. There was nothing soft about the way Harry moved his mouth against Draco’s. Harry felt the front of his teeth as they pressed against the tender underside of his lips, mashed their mouths together. Felt when Draco permitted his tongue entrance and answered the quick movements. For a man with such pliant lips, Draco had no reserve with meeting Harry’s demanding kiss; his tongue eased around Harry’s in quick thrusts, his mouth moving with the erratic pulse of desire. 

The heat of his breath caressed Harry’s face, quickly ending when Harry retreated, took a breath, parted his lips; then resumed nipping and goading Draco further. It was a game that had no rules. If Harry moved his lips one way, Draco met him. It was raw and grating, quick grazes against each other. 

Harry’s fingers curled harder against Draco’s back, his control being siphoned away by the heat of Draco’s skin moving against his.

Draco’s hands gripped Harry’s hips, pulled them together tighter. The first impulse Harry felt was to grind, slow and hard into Draco, to let nerves aching to be stimulated have their fill, but he ignored it. Draco’s grip on his hips tightened more. Draco seemed to answer Harry’s need with his own. The kiss ended, and Draco looked around the room. Harry didn’t pay attention; he didn’t need to. Wherever Draco took them would be fine with him: he’d turn around, sink to the floor, or let Draco press him against the wall. The connexion was the lure; location meant nothing.

A few seconds passed; his decision made, Draco led Harry backwards. 

Harry bit Draco’s neck. That long column was exposed further as Draco tilted his head to the side, allowing Harry’s mouth access. His tongue glided up the surface as they continued to move. There wasn’t that much space to cross, but it felt like wherever Draco planned to take him was too far. Every muscle in his body clenched, anticipation driving away reason. And Harry let it. 

Draco’s hands moved up from Harry’s hips, across his ribs and back, supporting him as though he were a brittle autumn leaf. Fingers tightened, the pressure against Harry’s spine and ribs indicating the hunger that smouldered beneath the sang-froid surface of Draco’s face. His touch, his kiss, always betrayed his true feelings; and Harry closed his eyes, tilting his head back, as Draco’s tongue rose up his neck, across his Adam’s apple. An involuntary shiver moved through Harry at the opposite feel of strength against tenderness. He wouldn’t break. He was more robust than Draco often gave him credit for, his fear of going too far one that wouldn’t temper Harry’s request so easily. In his head, a roar of feelings and sensations flowed, a burning current that moved along his skin and dragged him along the depths of need. It felt like Fiendfyre and Unforgiveables crashing into him all at once: part compulsion, part raw energy that moved around them both.

Every hard line of Draco’s body pushed against him. The sense of anticipation mounted as they moved, and Harry finally shoved his mouth back to Draco’s. They were separate fronts of air current, crashing into one another; all breath left Harry’s lungs. He withdrew his tongue, inhaled, his lip still being teased between Draco’s.

A touch, heavy and demanding, landed against Harry’s shoulders. Surprised, he broke the kiss and looked up. Draco turned him and he faced the large window in the bedroom. Panting with his lips parted, Harry felt a sting of want move through him; Draco’s erection against his arse made his muscles contract. A delicious pulse of pure sensation moved through him as he positioned himself, without urging, onto the padded window seat, his knees spread. He was wantonly open, demanding a hard, uncontrolled fuck. “Oh, yes,” Harry moaned.

He could only imagine how Draco would look in the same position, back straight and that delightful curve of muscle and sinew flexing. He wanted to feel filthy, to taunt Draco to go farther than he had before. Vocal pleas would make Draco protest. Shaping him like wet clay was impossible; Harry would have to work out some other way to have what he wanted. 

Harry knew Draco liked what he saw. His hands forced Harry’s against the window. The glass groaned in its frame, but Harry knew it wouldn’t break; there were too many spells coursing through the structure of the cottage for its integrity to be compromised by a hard fuck against the window. No one but Draco could see him. He felt free; he was being freed of his bindings of tension.

Turning to look over his shoulder, Harry commanded, “Don’t hold back. I won’t break.”

Baited, Draco Summoned lube, and Harry wrenched his gaze back to the window. Nothing outside stole his attention from their breathing and the way Harry felt fully exposed, with Draco behind him, and the squishing sound of lube moving in Draco’s hand. His focus shifted again; a burning sensation, both pleasurable and painful, coursed through him as Draco invaded his arsehole. Three fingers stretched him open, pushed inside him. 

Harry hissed, his breath hitching as his heart palpitated wildly. His whole body tightened. He was afraid Draco was going to stop; hurting Harry was unforgiveable to Draco, but Harry didn’t want it to end. He couldn’t have that; he needed to test himself, and shed the feeling of heaviness that clung to him like a snake’s skin. The wet squelch stopped, along with the stretching and electric-like current of pleasure. Harry turned to look at Draco again. 

“If you stop, you can’t taste me for a month,” Harry challenged.

Draco scowled. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.” Harry was serious.

“If you let me hurt you, Potter, you won’t feel my tongue for a month.”

“You won’t,” Harry said confidently, returning his attention to the glass.

The blunt press of Draco’s cock met his hole, his knuckles raking against Harry’s buttocks. Harry relaxed, his body accommodating as Draco angled through the ring of muscles; welcomed the sensation. Then he drove in, no hesitation; bursts of sensation erupted through Harry. Draco’s movements were like pulling a bowstring, making Harry arch, his moan caught in the bend as he pressed his hips back. 

A muted scrape of fingernail against glass came with Draco’s hand on Harry’s hip. Draco’s hand clutched Harry’s forearm, the other remaining on Harry’s hip as he shoved forward. It was uncomfortable, new. Nothing like the other times. Draco’s cock raked his insides with each thrust. There was no smooth glide. And he tensed around it; he forced himself to relax when it was too much. Draco would stop if he knew there was any pain or discomfort. But that made it worth it. He liked it, wanted more. Moaning, Harry pushed back, met Draco’s hips. Their skin slapped together angrily. It felt like a competition the way Draco forced his body forward. He loved every ache. Draco’s punishing pace scrambled his thoughts; his head hung limply between his arms. A flare of heat raced down his biceps as he fought against the pace of Draco’s thrusts. There was enough discomfort to keep the thrill of his body reacting too quickly.

It wasn’t enough. Harry greedily wanted more. He wouldn’t come like this; there were too many contradicting sensations to give him absolute fulfilment, no matter what angle Draco moved to accommodate Harry’s twisting and rocking against him. The slide of Draco’s cock within him was rough, and he let himself tighten reflexively without attempting to stop Draco. His arms trembled, his fingers tensing against the glass.

“Just let go,” Harry begged, his breaths coming in quick bursts. For enticement, he spread his legs more, sinking lower on Draco’s cock, and riding the slick shaft. “Please, Draco.”

It didn’t work. Draco maintained his self-control, not giving in to Harry’s pleas. When Draco paid no mind to what Harry wanted – needed – he leaned forward and bit Draco’s hand. Sweat moved along his skin, and Draco’s balls slapped against his body. Trying to think of anything that would snap the tight line of Draco’s self-control, Harry moaned, his tongue moving along the edge of Draco’s fingers and thumb. Anything that he could reach with his mouth was his to torment.

Draco sank his teeth into Harry’s shoulder and slammed in harder. 

“Yes!” Harry barked, wanting more. It burned and ached, but he didn’t want Draco to stop. He wanted to claim this: his independence; their relationship; the sex. Finally he could make a decision, own the consequences of his actions. There was nothing left to separate them; he wanted a reminder, to have his senses remember Draco every time he moved. This was his. He was Draco’s. No matter how fforde-Fane had tried to take it away, he’d failed. Proof lay in the hard, punctuated thrusts that tore through Harry. His orgasm was miles away, but he wanted Draco’s. None of the waiting for Harry to come; consideration be damned. Every tremble that moved through him fed the need. His body moved with Draco, against Draco, shoved them tighter and tighter. He could only force so much without Draco’s help. “Wan’ to feel your fucking come in me. You’ll have to lick mine off the window, if you want it,” Harry growled. 

Harry already imagined the heat and satisfaction that would follow Draco’s orgasm. It was just a feeling, but he suspected Draco liked it this way, found adventure in it. Nothing about it felt submissive or weak, not the way their bodies clashed into one another. His stomach, his arms, his legs, they all burned. The pressure against his hip and arm became harder, and Draco’s forehead pressed against Harry’s back. Sweat dripped along Harry’s skin. Pain and pleasure mingled; they fought for dominance with Draco’s rhythm, jerked Harry’s hips into Draco for the brief taste of sensation that rippled through him.

Harry bit Draco’s hand again, harder this time. Skin bunched between his teeth as Draco’s grip felt like an Incarcerous spell. Harry knew there would be brilliant marks left in place of Draco’s fingers. He didn’t care. Shattering the pristine surface of Draco’s control was a victory.

A snarl came from Draco; he let go. Harry trembled against the assault, sounds of pleasure mixing with those of pain as he fought against collapsing. Then Draco’s teeth sank into Harry’s neck, just below the hairline, making his head snap back. A tingle rippled across his skin. He felt like he was floating and weighted down, and every push of Draco’s hips, his cock, made him feel alive. Every nerve reacted and sparked. 

Draco’s breathing went ragged. His hand wrapped around Harry’s cock, but Harry had no desire to come before Draco. This was his. He was claiming Draco’s pleasure first. Those erratic angles and thrusts yanked the coil of pleasure from him; if he didn’t stop him, Harry would spurt all over the glass and the cushion that bunched, beneath his knees. 

“Draco,” Harry said breathlessly. “Are you listening?” The arrhythmic movement faltered for just a moment.

“Yes.”

“Come in me. Then you can toss me off.”

Harry felt the shudder from Draco; triumph moved through him. He finally earned what he had worked so hard to win: Draco fucking him unrestrained. Harry rejoiced in his ability to lead Draco by the rein. 

The blur of sensation moved around Harry. He felt Draco shift again, his cock plunging deeper. Every thrust was tight. His forehead pressed against the back of Harry’s head and finally he released all control into orgasm with a harsh exhale. His fingers flexed around Harry, his breath flooding over Harry’s back as he came, moving as deeply inside Harry as possible.

Draco regained his senses quickly and moved his hand from where it lay on Harry’s arm to his neglected and heavy cock. Shuddering, Harry leaned back against Draco, holding on as Draco’s hand moved quickly. The pliant edge of pleasure was pressed and shaped at Draco’s touch. Up. Down. Twist. The sharp ache ebbed away, driven by a skilled hand. Every muscle in his body tensed, and he arched against Draco with a cry of relief. Come spattered on the window, rolled down Draco’s hand as he continued stroking the length of Harry’s cock. 

Both of them trembled as Draco guided them to the bed. Harry lay down, watched as Draco licked the remains of Harry’s pleasure from his hand. The sticky feeling of Draco’s come stuck to his thighs and arse, and he rolled over, wrapping an arm securely around Draco. Eventually his breathing slowed and coherent thought returned. 

”Presumably it was fforde-Fane. Is it necrotising fasciitis, or will a bout of gastroenteritis do?” Draco asked, his fingers moving against Harry’s back.

Focussing, much like Draco, on only part of what he’d heard, Harry asked, “Isn’t there a way to get him sacked? I mean, he did almost kill me.” He paused a moment, grumbling about the day. “He actually thought I would give him my stick. Bloody moron. ‘I’ll need to examine this for any potentially harmful magic; St Mungo’s will provide you with a proper one.’” Harry scoffed. “I spent an hour and a half with the psychological Healer, then another three with fforde-Fane and his fawning assistant. I felt like I was taking NEWTs again the way he kept asking me to perform spells. ‘Why are you not using your old wand, Mr Potter?’ he asked. It’s none of his bloody business!” Harry tightened his hold on Draco. “‘Forgive me for being over-cautious, Mr Potter. With Healer Malfoy’s reputation, I’m sure you understand why it’s important to determine whether your health has been the paramount concern of your Healer.’” In his irritation, Harry spat a contemptuous remark about the Healer. “‘Please accept our sincerest apologies for improperly diagnosing you when you first were admitted.’ Did he think that would make me – what? – praise St Mungo’s in the press?” Wanting a distraction, Harry sucked at Draco’s neck, leaving a mark of possession behind. “‘You could still be an Auror, Mr Potter. We need you, my boy,’ he said. Why are you the only one willing to accept me not going back to the Ministry? Even when I explained that I had decided to train as a mediwizard, that didn’t seem to matter.” 

“Because I’m intelligent and they’re not. I’m also affronted that their exhortation to you was apparently almost word-for-word the same as Knighton’s exhortation to me,” Draco responded, licking Harry’s shoulder.

“Which one?” 

“The one beseeching me to return to St Mungo’s.” Draco’s nose nudged Harry’s temple, their mouths meeting as Harry turned. The languorous movement quelled Harry’s irritation further, replacing it with renewed hunger for Draco’s affection. 

When the kiss broke, Harry said, “fforde-Fane said I should have my circulation monitored regularly. But you probably knew that already.” Draco shifted, confirming that he did.

“It isn’t dangerous. And it might improve.”

Harry nodded. “You’re still going to be my Healer, aren’t you?” he asked, knowing that Draco wouldn’t trust his care to anyone else.

“Cretin,” Draco replied, bringing a smile to Harry’s face. Draco’s chosen term of endearment and all-purpose answer to questions he considered unworthy of actual answer was sweet and amused Harry. 

“At least Gillick was civil when I went to the Ministry, but he tried to ask me to stay on, too. I’ll never understand why fforde-Fane claims I’m fit for duty when I’m knackered just from going to London.” Harry shook his head and sighed contentedly. “I’m officially a retired Auror now, though.” He paused. “Are you going to go back?” he asked, changing the topic of conversation before Draco became uncomfortable and shut down on him. “They seemed... happy that I had applied for training – once I’d made it clear I wasn’t returning to the Ministry, that is.” 

“Yes, of course they were. And I haven’t really given it any consideration. What do you think?” 

“I don’t know. They treated you like crap before. And you’d still be working for fforde-Fane, wouldn’t you?”

Draco made a soft snorting noise. “More ‘with’ than ‘for’ this time.”

“Promotion?” Harry asked, smiling, as Draco’s nose moved along the underside of his jaw.

Humming, Draco said, “New research field,” his search for something continuing.

“That would be... good for you, I think. You certainly wouldn’t be bored. But do you want me there as Trainee Malfoy while you’re there?”

What Harry thought was an affirmative hum followed the question, Draco’s mouth finally finding what it was looking for. The gentle suction against the tender skin made Harry moan, his head tipping back further to allow Draco better access. 

Draco stopped sucking at Harry’s skin, his breath moving across the wet spot and sending a shiver down his spine, as he inquired, “How would you feel about me teaching you?”

The vitreous look to Harry’s eyes cleared. “Teaching?” He smiled. “At least I know you wouldn’t accept anything less than my best. Merlin, the other trainees will think favouritism, though – because we’re married. Well, after we’re married. You know what I mean.”

Draco’s tongue moved across the same spot. “‘Favouritism’ won’t be the word they think when they see how I treat you,” he promised caressingly. His mouth continued where it had left off.

“Oh?” Harry moaned. 

Draco hummed. “I can make Severus Snape seem positively fluffy. And I will. There will be no doubt that you work to achieve your excellence. And you will.” His teeth grazed Harry. 

“Well, that’s good.”

Draco huffed in amusement and continued sucking. “It wouldn’t discompose you, though?” 

“No. You know I like that you don’t treat me like everyone else does.” Harry chuckled. “And I know you won’t let me make you look bad, too.” Draco snorted. “You’ll probably want to tutor me,” Harry mused.

Humming, Draco said, “Among other things,” the delicious hint of depraved thoughts an undertone that crept along Harry’s skin; and Harry grinned. “I will work you as you have never been worked before. Trust me on this. But I’ll do that whether I work there and teach you or not.” And the feel of Draco’s teeth against him, nibbling, distracted him.

“You already work me, Draco.” Harry licked his lips. “I wouldn’t have applied if I wasn’t serious. I was interested in it. I just like helping people, I suppose. And if you’ll let me sneak in your office during the day...” A moan tore from Harry’s throat at the more forceful nip that came in response.

“You’re a fool if you think I won’t insist on it.”

“Good.”

Draco’s hand on his shoulder slowly moved down Harry’s back, the skin responding to the teasing touch. Those brilliant, long fingers moved to his arse and curled inside him, pulling another sound from Harry, his body relaxing, welcoming it. He refused to allow the soreness from Draco’s possessive fuck to dampen the enjoyment of further penetration. He wondered how Draco felt to have his fingers moving inside Harry, his own come easing the gentle thrusting. Then a strange feeling of warmth flooded him. He huffed, realising what Draco was doing, and sleepily said, “I’m fine. Stop worrying. Thought we’d had this conversation about me being capable of making a decision.”

“I know you are. That’s not the point.”

“Muggle gay men have been doing this without magic for quite a while, you know.”

“Yes, well, we have advantages they lack.”

“Fine,” Harry replied, a smile creeping over his face. Getting to Draco, however underhanded his methods might have been, made him feel a smug sense of satisfaction. The reminder of Draco having lost control was one he wanted to keep, but he knew that if he was sore, Draco wouldn’t be able to corner him and fuck him whenever the mood took him. Harry didn’t mind; he liked that Draco sought him out during the day, finding any excuse, no matter how flimsy, to suck him, or bend him over the nearest surface. Not when it was always good. Draco kissed his head, the magic twisting and spinning with the gentle glide of his fingers. Breathless at the oddly fulfilling sensation, Harry asked, “Was it me or the window?”

The heat of magic dissipated. “You. It’s always you.”

“Mmm,” Harry said, running his hand along Draco’s flank. He loved touching Draco; feeling the subtle shift of muscle as Draco reacted. And Harry was starting to learn that the cottage brought out a different side of Draco, one that was less inclined toward absolute self-control, his barriers crumbling with every second that passed. The cottage was Harry’s, and after many conversations with the portraits, Harry knew that no one else had ever been able to come and go as he did; that Draco had allowed him something special by not keeping him there, as the other Malfoys had done. It was another whisper of Draco’s feelings, and Harry suspected that when he brought Draco here, it was proof of Harry’s feelings, too, without ever having to say the words that became like a Muggle-repelling charm to Draco. An invitation meant that Harry truly desired his presence, that it was only them. No one else could have this.

“You’re going to need remedial potions work.”

“Yes,” Harry moaned, both to the feeling and Draco’s remark.

Draco licked his neck. “You may come to regret saying that.” He crooked his fingers; and Harry shuddered, his voice heavy with arousal as he approved of the movement. 

“I’ll come. But I don’t think there’ll be any regret.”

“Potter, your lines get worse,” Draco said with a snort. Then he reared back, watching Harry closely. Another burst of sensation forced the breath from Harry’s lungs, a ragged sound of appreciation following. 

A smile, sharp and gleaming, moved across Draco’s face. 

“Let me ask you serious questions while you’re fucking me,” Harry remarked, no malice in his tone. At Draco’s look of incomprehension, he clarified, “It’s a bit hard to think with you doing that.” The movement in and out of Harry’s arse stilled.

“You find it difficult to think while I’m fingering you, therefore you want to ask me serious questions while I’m doing it?” Draco shook his head. “You make no sense.” And as if he needed to make a point, he punctuated the last two words with a twist that snapped Harry’s body against Draco’s, a moan falling free.

“No. More like don’t expect my lines to be coherent when you do that.”

Further conversation ended when Draco pressed his lips to Harry’s, his fingers continuing their skilled movements. A tingle ran from the base of Harry’s spine, spreading over his shoulders and up his neck with the lingering movement of lips and tongue against his.

“Your voice takes on the most delightful note when you’re in this state, you know.” A soft red spread on Harry’s cheek as he bit his lip. Draco kissed the point of Harry’s chin. “And that is a remarkably pretty colour.”

“Mm,” Harry hummed, licking his lips. Draco’s thumb stroked the curve of his buttock. Harry blinked slowly, meeting with a quizzical look. “What?” he asked. And Draco twisted his fingers again, sending a blaze of sensation through Harry as he moaned, his cock hard and ready for another round. 

Setting his shoulders, his face lightly flushed, Draco said, “There’s…” He stopped, cleared his throat. “There’s nothing you wouldn’t let me do to you, is there?” 

“No,” Harry said honestly, any other words cut short when Draco claimed his mouth. “You have all of me. You know that. And I trust you. If I don’t like something, I’ll tell you.” Draco twisted his body, giving Harry a perfect place to rub his erection, and Harry accepted, whispering, “The rest of my life seems too short now.” He would have felt guilty about making an emotional statement he knew would make Draco uncomfortable but for Draco’s lips meeting his in a loving kiss, combined with the constant, gentle thrusting of his fingers, making Harry surrender. 

The look on Draco’s face, his smile, as though he was looking at the most precious thing in existence, managed to bring a darker flush to Harry’s cheeks. Combined embarrassment and arousal, the need to be closer, and his still-lingering discomfort with being watched so intensely, washed through Harry and he tightened his arm around Draco. Nothing felt better than that, and sounds varying in volume issued from his lips as his hips shifted to draw Draco’s fingers deeper, and maintain the constant pressure against his cock. Closer. He needed to be closer, but he wanted to feel Draco deeper, too. 

“Harry,” Draco murmured like a prayer.

“Dr—” 

Shudders wracked Harry’s body as he came. He inhaled deeply, the rapid shifting of emotions paralysing. 

When Harry had caught his breath, he gathered what come lay against Draco’s skin in his palm and coated Draco’s erection, stroking until he watched, fascinated, as the last mask dropped and come flowed over his hand. 

They lay silent for a long time, Draco’s limbs wrapped securely around Harry as though he might disappear. Satiation aided the comforting feeling of sleepiness that crept over Harry; his eyes drifted closed. When his stamina returned, Harry would be happy. They had talked about that, and Harry supposed he couldn’t expect miracles overnight, even if he’d been able to walk so soon after the last spell had been removed. It had occurred to him on a few occasions to inquire whether delaying removing _Malleus Mentis_ had caused more damage, but part of him didn’t want to know; he’d done it so that he’d be coherent for Draco’s birthday, with no regrets.

“I have to... go back next week. To St Mungo’s,” Harry murmured sleepily, remembering that he’d forgotten to mention that in his haste to have Draco naked. “Interview.”

Draco kissed his head. “And so you will. Don’t worry about it.”

“Not. Just saying,” Harry muttered. Draco hummed reassuringly. “Sticky.” Wordlessly, Draco cast a Cleaning Charm, and Harry hummed as he wrapped his cold feet around Draco’s legs. The sweat and come disappeared. “Mmm. Brill’.” Soft hushing noises came, and Harry followed them into sleep.

Sometime later, Harry woke, stretching and rolling on top of Draco. He groaned softly at Draco’s affectionate laugh.

“One day I’m going to push you out of bed doing that, I think,” Harry speculated, rolling onto his back and stretching properly.

Laughing more fully, Draco promised, “I’ll drag you with me.”

“No you won’t. I could get hurt.” Harry grinned cheekily.

“Not if you land on me. And you generally do, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Mmm. Would it help if I apologised?” Harry asked, dragging his hand up his stomach.

Draco laughed again, then said, rolling his eyes, “I consider it a privilege to break your fall. There’s always a chance that your arse will land on my cock.”

Amused by Draco’s deliberate absurdity, Harry laughed back. “I don’t think you really have to wait for chance for that.” Draco quirked a smile. “I like when you smile,” Harry said, rubbing his stomach. “Should probably eat something. I’d rather not play Healer and patient today.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Damn. That’s one of my favourites.” The words were the vocal equivalent of an eye-roll, but it continued to tickle Harry nonetheless. “You need to give the orders, Potter. Your house-elves won’t obey me.”

“I know, I know. I’m thinking.” Finally deciding on something, Harry ordered. When their food arrived, Draco promptly began feeding him. “How are you going to eat if you feed me every time we’re here?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Draco said, then ostentatiously consumed a piece of cheese.

Harry clamped down on his first impulse to say ‘yes, Father’ and tolerated Draco’s chiding, and reminded him of their plans for the future. “So... now that we’re both relatively healthy and have all these plans... when do you want take care of getting Luna pregnant? Do you want to wait for a little bit longer?”

Considering, Draco said, “We’re aiming for late June. It’s too early.” A thought occurred visibly. “If you’re doing well enough at St Mungo’s, I’ll let you do it, if you like.” Surprised, Harry choked on his breath. “It strikes me as a pleasing... irony, the notion of you impregnating her with my son.”

It made Harry happier than he could have admitted that Draco was willing to have Harry assist with the procedure. He smiled. “If you want.”

“It’s not that complex a procedure.” Harry nodded. “I can’t remember offhand when you cover obstetrics.” After a moment, Draco shrugged and added, “I don’t suppose it matters. I can train you anyway.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Harry remarked.

Draco tilted his head to the side. “You’ve delivered a baby before?” 

Laughing, Harry clarified, “No. You trained me in how to use the spells for your recovery and the Mark removal.” He remembered something else. “They want to see my notes from the removal. At the interview next week.”

Draco shrugged, feeding Harry a succulent morsel of chicken. “Of course they do. Your field healing work was unremarkable; that was something rather special. None of the other surviving Death Eaters had their Marks removed. It was practically an unprecedented procedure.”

Harry reached for a piece of chicken on the tray and fed it to Draco. Attempting to confirm his suspicions, he asked, “You knew Hermione persuaded me to add that to the application, didn’t you?”

Fixing Harry with a long-suffering look, Draco said, “I’m just surprised you didn’t realise who gave _her_ the idea in the first place.”

“I had a feeling. What with the way you were telling me to have it published.”

Draco bridled immediately. “I did not tell you to have it published. I _suggested_ that submitting it to one of the professional journals might be appropriate.”

“I know that. I wasn’t suggesting that you...” Harry stopped. “Draco.” He sighed. The day he stopped saying things that Draco misinterpreted couldn’t come soon enough. “I know you weren’t trying to... make me. That’s not what I meant.”

“You have the diplomatic skills of a Blasting Curse, sometimes, Potter.” There was affection in the tone.

“Unfortunately.”

Draco’s expression suggested that kissing him might be a good idea, so Harry did, feeling the solid comfort of arms wrapping around him as Draco laughed against his mouth. Distracted by the beautiful simplicity of the transformation that overtook Draco’s face when he smiled, Harry traced the curve of his lips with his fingers. “I’m really glad I get to see this.” It pleased Harry that Draco let him see this side of him, that he wasn’t always a statue. He leaned forward and kissed Draco again briefly, despite the look of puzzlement. “You knew what you were getting into. I’ll just let you take the lead where diplomacy is concerned,” Harry said, dragging the conversation back on topic.

Still visibly puzzled, Draco said, “Alright.” 

Harry had little interest in being subtle; he suspected it was one of those fine arts that he would never master, or even come close to touching. As long as Draco didn’t begrudge Harry’s bluntness, there would be no problems.

**~*~*~*~**

A propos of nothing, Harry looked up from his revised notes of Draco’s Mark removal and asked, “If we’re not telling your mum when we’re getting married, how are we going to do this?”

Looking up from his book, Draco replied. “Quietly and discreetly.” He tilted his head to the side. “It would be possible, if you wished, to tell nobody until the moment of the ceremony, apart from the relevant section of the Ministry.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“The guise of a new year’s eve party, perhaps. Assemble the people we would choose to have around us under that pretext, or something similar. If we marry by Certificate and Licence, we only need to give one clear day’s notice, so the opportunity for the... news... to find its way out of the ministry before we and our guests are safely secluded in the Manor, if you’re happy to marry here, is negligible.”

“Why wouldn’t I be happy to marry here? It’s our home.” Pausing to consider, Harry smiled. “I like that. And we’ll be on our honeymoon before anyone can bother us.” Draco nodded. “I was thinking... to ask Eleanor to stand as my parent. And wanted to get her some robes. That’s why I asked. Something nice, you know? I don’t think she’d say anything to your mum.”

Draco frowned slightly. 

“What? I just thought that since we’ll be in formal robes... it’ll look… odd if everyone else isn’t. Especially to your mum.”

“You don’t need a parent. You’re an adult.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll need witnesses.”

“Maybe that’s what I was thinking of,” Harry said. “She’ll do it. I think. And Ron. Or Hermione.”

Draco sighed faintly. “I’d better have the other one.” He paused a moment. “And Lovegood.”

“Hermione and Luna for your witnesses?”

Draco shrugged. “It has a pleasing sort of symmetry.”

“Eleanor and Ron... so I’ll need to talk to both of them before, yeah? And keep Ron quiet.”

“A new year’s eve gathering would afford an appropriate reason for formal attire and festive decoration in the house,” Draco said, seeming to go back to the beginning of the conversation.

Smiling with a faint blush, Harry said, “We should have the roses and orchids.”

Draco nodded. “Of course. You need to ask Shacklebolt to perform the ceremony himself.”

“I’ll ask him. Probably need an Unbreakable Vow. Your mum would get it out of him. He likes her too much.”

Draco shook his head. “He can hold his own. I wouldn’t have agreed to the marriage otherwise. She can’t be allowed to rule the roost.” The comment made Harry chuckle lightly, his amusement fading at the serious look that came over Draco’s face. “I mean it, Potter. She’s a Black. She’s considerably more refined than my aunt Bellatrix, but she’s of the same stock, and she didn’t escape the family influence as early as my aunt Andromeda - or into equally different influences. She has the potential to be far worse than my father ever was. If anything ever happens to me, you will need to be careful of her.”

Surprised, Harry nodded.

“Shacklebolt can hold his own. She’ll accept his hand on her rein when it matters.” Harry could tell it was an attempt at reassurance, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He supposed it proved how little he knew about Draco’s mother. Made uncomfortable by the statement, he shifted. “So there should be no need for an Unbreakable,” Draco continued, his tone lighter. “That will make obtaining the requisite documentation from the Ministry even more straightforward, and it should reassure the world at large that I have indeed been safely leg-shackled.”

Harry shook his head. “Do you want to be there?”

“I’m sorry?”

“When I talk to Kingsley.”

Pausing a moment, Draco said, “No, I think not. He’ll feel better about it if he can speak to us independently of one another. Though I’d be extremely surprised to find that he harbours residual doubts, what with one thing and another.” 

“Alright. I still want to do something for Eleanor.”

“Take her shopping by all means,” Draco said, then offered a few recommendations that Harry committed to memory. “Will you Floo, Apparate, or have Dawlish drive you?” 

“Oh... Dawlish might like to get out of the house. Probably ask him to drive us. I’ll have my mobile.” It had amused Harry greatly when Draco had shown him the car he’d purchased at Dawlish’s recommendation. 

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.” Draco flickered a smile. “I certainly do. I’ve run out of things for him to do.”

**~*~*~*~**

A few days later, when he’d taken Mrs Prout to London, Harry discovered that Dawlish had been aware of Draco’s difficulty assigning tasks to his steward. Apparating to the bedroom from the entrance hall, Harry took his purchase to the bedroom and placed it on the chest of drawers. He stepped into the sitting room to find Draco reading a book on the sofa. 

“Dawlish says you don’t have to keep working out things for him to do every day.” Harry smiled.

Lowering his book, Draco asked, “I beg your pardon?”

“He said that he hasn’t got as much pride as you seem to think he has, and that he’s willing to take the money for punching Gillick because you appreciated the support, when we were on the way to London.” Harry watched, waiting for Draco’s reaction. It amused him that Keith had foregone speaking directly to Draco and leaving it up to Harry to deliver the news. Acting as translator seemed like a definite addition to his future.

Draco blinked rapidly several times, the resetting of his thoughts so clear that Harry found it laughable to think that he’d once found Draco completely inscrutable. “Oh.” Harry made his way to the sofa and dropped a kiss on the top of Draco’s head, before sitting next to him. Blinking again, Draco looked at him.

Harry smiled. “I got you something. It’s in the bedroom on the chest of drawers.”

Draco seemed surprised again. “That’s kind of you. You didn’t have to.” He looked pleased.

“I know.” Harry smiled again, reaching for Draco’s hand. Leading him to the bedroom, he watched as Draco read the card Harry had left on top of the simple inlaid wooden box; it was larger than the one Draco stored his meaningful items in. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the box; its simplicity had seemed appropriate, given Draco’s dislike of huge gestures on Harry’s part. When Harry had seen it, he’d thought it would be perfect, provide more space for the items that Draco would collect over the years.

Draco blinked several times, his hand moving across the lid in a caress that seemed to reach around Harry’s heart and squeeze; but not painfully. The touch looked as if Draco had to feel the surface and soak up that Harry had given him a gift. It brought a smile to his face to watch as Draco opened it and placed his original box into the new one, with a look of satisfaction. He supposed the box itself meant something to Draco, or that keeping things in the original box was meaningful. Harry had learnt that Draco thrived on repetition and routine. Change wasn’t good. He liked what was familiar.

“Did you find something for Mrs Prout?” he asked, still touching the wood.

“Yes. I’m still going to take her to the other, though.”

Draco nodded distractedly. After inquiring what Harry had eaten for lunch, and receiving a satisfactory answer, Draco relapsed into distraction, and then began to frown.

Slightly alarmed, Harry demanded, “What?”

“What am I going to do with a retired Auror?”

Harry paused. That hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear. Relieved, he laughed and reached out, pulling Draco into his arms.

“I meant the _other_ retired Auror. I have no intention whatever of doing this with him.”

“I know,” Harry said, smiling. “I’ve no idea. But, it’s possible that you don’t have to do anything. Unless we need him.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind him around when we have the kids, if I’m honest. You know how Luna is. I know she wouldn’t intentionally... do anything that would hurt them, but...”

“She needs babysitting,” Draco finished.

“And the reporters are still about,” Harry added reasonably. “They’ll be worse when we get back from wherever we’re taking our honeymoon.”

“Do you suppose he’d like to learn to drive a train?” Draco asked, a propos of nothing, then a look of mild surprise came over his face. “Sweden. You booked it.”

“I just... it was just a holiday. I hadn’t... that’s...” Harry flushed. Draco silenced any more of Harry’s attempts to explain himself with a kiss.

“Unless you’d rather I took you on a cruise around the world, or something?”

Harry shook his head. “No.”

Draco kissed him again. “Then that’s our honeymoon.”

To Be Continued…


	38. Chapter 38

**Author’s Note:** This is the end of “The Price of Valour”. The story will eventually be continued in “The Principles of Valour” and a few alternate endings/extras that were not included in the actual story. There were many avenues it could have taken, and the one I chose left many things unexplored, so in time, those will be added.

My sincerest thanks go to Romany (who co-authored the piece [and brought Draco to life]) for putting up with me throughout the duration of this story. You’ve taught me much, and your always-honest feedback has been invaluable.

Many thanks to the readers who were supportive throughout the last year. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed – with loads of help – writing it. This story was inspired by a dear friend of mine, and without his help and constant honesty with a similar situation, I wouldn’t have been able to express Harry’s circumstances. 

****

Chapter 38: Treading a Path to the Future

“Potter, what in the name of sanity are you doing?”

Turning his gaze from the finger-drawn circle, with two small lines rising from the middle, on the window, Harry smiled softly at Draco’s expression. “Waiting for midnight,” he answered, shifting in the window seat, letting the soft breeze creep over his heated skin. It occurred to Harry to wonder if Draco didn’t know, or if he was just confused by Harry’s behaviour. He’d been there for a while, his naked back against the frame, a soft cushion beneath him. Peacefully, Draco had been sleeping; and even though Draco had seemed to have got used to Harry watching him while he slept, Harry hadn’t wanted to disturb him, and had chosen to get out of bed to wait for midnight. It was cooler in the window, too.

“Yes, I gathered that from the way you keep looking at the clock and smiling at the church bells. _Why_ are you waiting for midnight?”

“It’s my birthday,” Harry said quietly, and shook his head, for once allowing the old memories to surface, without giving them any measure of control. Draco must have been watching him for some time without comment. “Ever since I can remember, I’ve waited up by myself. The Dursleys rarely remembered. That, and when I turned eleven, I found out I was a wizard.” A smile that could have rivalled Luna spread on Harry’s face. “Hagrid brought me my first birthday cake.”

Frowning for a moment, Draco said, “Mrs Prout’s made your birthday cake.”

“Has she?” Harry asked, delighted. Draco rose from the bed and padded toward the window. “The Weasleys usually send cards and things, too. And Hermione. But she’s here.”

Harry shifted forward, and Draco settled behind him, wrapping his arms around Harry’s chest.

“My mother’s been having fun, I can tell you that much. You’ll probably have half of Honeyduke’s.”

Surprised, Harry turned to look at Draco and asked, “Why?”

With a look that challenged Harry’s intelligence, Draco replied, “My mother is a firm believer in giving boys chocolate. And she quite likes you.”

Smiling, Harry leaned back against Draco and faced his small finger-smudge cake on the windowpane as the bells began their midnight peal. A soft _pop_ sounded when Flitter appeared, holding a small cake. Harry eyed it in astonishment, a broad grin spreading on his face as Draco charmed the icing to read ‘Happy Birthday Harry’. Draco took the plate from the elf and lit the candles, holding it in front of Harry. 

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Harry said, blowing out the candles. A kiss was pressed against the side of his head, just as the final chime sounded. 

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Draco echoed, the current of his voice warm and titillating as it coursed through Harry. He leaned back into Draco, the reminder that he was real, that someone remembered and cared about his he existence, providing him with a sense of peace. 

Tendrils of smoke rose into the air; Harry’s eyes followed, the candles dislodging themselves from the confection catching his attention. A piece from the cake rose from the plate and landed on another that floated before Harry. Smiling, he reached out and took the plate, as a fork appeared on the edge. 

“So are we going to do this every year?” Draco asked.

Harry shrugged. “I always have done.”

“Yes, then. Eat your cake.”

Gathering a bite onto the fork, Harry turned and pressed a kiss to Draco’s lips, then offered the cake to him.

Draco accepted, but said, “Potter.” 

“Mmm?” Harry hummed around a mouthful of cake.

“It’s your birthday.”

“And I’m sharing it with you.”

“Which is lovely, but not the point.”

Laughing, Harry turned and took a few bites, then replaced the fork. Dinner had been filling, and having not regained an appetite close to what he used to have, he didn’t want any more.

“Potter, it’s your _birthday_.”

“I know,” Harry said, shrugging. He gathered some of the buttercream filling on the tip of his finger and licked it off. 

Draco sighed, then caught Harry off guard with the question that followed. “Were you planning on fucking me at any point in the immediate future?”

Turning, as the plate floated from his hand, Harry caught that predatory invitation in Draco’s eyes. Heat rose from Harry’s stomach, a weight of nervous energy at the thought moving through him. Draco’s eyebrows rose in query, a question in his eyes that Harry wasn’t sure that he could answer vocally. Words would take the moment, and with a diamond’s edge, draw fine cracks along a pristine surface of glass. If it was disturbed, there would be nothing but etched remains. 

Usually steady hands trembled as Harry reached out and took Draco’s face and cradled it between his fingertips, kissing him slowly. An understanding passed between them as Harry’s mouth grew more insistent. 

The smooth challenge of Draco’s lips met Harry’s, his tongue curling like a beckoning finger, drawing Harry further in. And Harry let himself be pulled, teased by the unrelenting force of restrained desire. It moved around him as his fingers flexed and he pushed them through Draco’s hair, guiding their mouths until he had the angle he wanted. When he felt that caress of Draco’s tongue against the underside of his, as though Draco was sucking his cock, trailing saliva, massaging the underside of his shaft, Harry let out a soft moan. That one movement in all of its goading bliss drove Harry’s mouth away from Draco’s; but even though the kiss had ended, Harry was just getting started. He’d fantasised about this for months, his mind supplying ample scenarios to keep him at the edge of anticipation, but never releasing him. Now, he could work his way through the tangle of restraint and fall, secure in the knowledge that Draco would catch him.

“Oh, good,” Draco said, his voice bait, begging Harry to enter his snare. That smile, the one that always lured Harry closer, gave him a reason to flush, spread on Draco’s face. It made Harry restless and jittery, as though he had no experience at all. But he knew what it was like to touch Draco, to feel the gentle greeting of aroused nerves against the palm of his hand as he moved it across a lithe body and beautiful skin.

With one breath, Harry could taste the building scent of arousal; let it seep into him. He turned to face Draco, the picture of desire and all the things Harry had come to know and love as much as living itself staring back at him as the cushion sank under his knees. Pierced by the intensity reflected at him, Harry reached out with a trembling hand and ran it along Draco’s neck. A steady pulse tapped against his thumb as he drew it down into the groove between Draco’s collarbones. Leaning forward, his tongue already extended, he dipped inside as though his favourite sweet lay nestled there and traced a line to Draco’s Adam’s apple. He stopped and tilted his head, sucking on the ridge as it bounced with every swallow. Draco’s consent was to tip his head back, give Harry the best access to his body as possible. The hint of sweat clinging to Draco’s skin crawled along Harry’s taste buds, sank into him. 

He reached out and braced himself against the sharp corner of the window with one hand, and cradled Draco’s face with the other, stroking his thumb along Draco’s high, elegant cheekbone. His fingers tangled in pale strands of hair; they tickled the back of his fingers, shifting and caressing him in much the same way Draco’s hands were. The pressure of Draco’s thumbs rested along the grooves of Harry’s hips, his long fingers splayed across Harry’s lower back and arse. His skin twitched at the contact; and he released the odd angle he held against Draco’s neck. 

The tip of his nose ran the length of the tender underside of Draco’s jaw, and he nipped the hard line of Draco’s chin, his bottom lip dragging and leaving a moist path to Draco’s mouth. The first kiss was just a tease. He tasted Draco, drew his tongue along the plump curve that parted against Harry’s mouth in welcome. When he pressed harder, Draco met him halfway; the fervent collision stole Harry’s breath. His lungs ached with tension as the wet glide of tongues met his ears, his own breath as erratic as his heartbeat. Between them, the muffled sound of a moan escaped. Nothing else illustrated Harry’s pleasure as easily. Sounds like those amplified and became the scale by which every other moment was weighed and measured. He knew Draco could feel the point when Harry would suffocate before putting distance between their lips. And in the haze of the endearments that Draco fed him, Harry pulled away to inhale, smelled Draco and arousal so thick he thought he might choke. But he swallowed, let it provide the sustenance he eagerly drank in.

It was difficult to decide what he wanted to do. Draco sat before him, his body completely at Harry’s disposal. Harry looked at him. His eyes swept over Draco’s shoulders, across the smooth rise of muscle in his biceps and chest. The livid lines of the scars Harry had left long ago stood out against the pale moonlight that danced across his skin. It wasn’t innocent in the same way the flush of arousal was; it was angry and born of anger. And with all of those ghosts in the past, Harry wanted to be as tender and deserving as the look on Draco’s face said Harry was.

Draco remained still under the scrutiny, his fingers and hands only twitching slightly against Harry’s hips. Leaning forward, Harry licked at Draco’s neck, moved closer as Draco’s tipped his head back, revealing a pale pillar of corded muscle that welcomed each swipe of Harry’s tongue. A shiver rippled through Draco when Harry bit down and sucked at his skin, leaving a stain like dragon’s blood ink, a gentle red that grew against the taut line extending from ear to shoulder. Reflexively, the tendons tightened and relaxed against each assault. 

Harry’s self-control was already like a soaked parchment that had been placed in the sun to dry, full of brittle cracks that were becoming canyons he needed to cross to maintain a semblance of restraint. But like all things where Draco was concerned, the bonds that held desire in check frayed until all that was left were crimped strands of thread that swayed loose, and intermittently entangled themselves together again. As they rocked unsteadily, continually uncoiling, Harry grew impatient. Draco’s hands hadn’t moved. They lay against his skin, the touches alternating between a barely perceptible caress and a firm grip; neither was enough. 

“Bed,” Harry ordered, his tone husky and breathless.

Draco rose, turning toward the large expanse of their bed. The curtains were drawn back; moonlight that looked like a river spread across the deep-blue sheets pulled Harry along behind Draco.

Draco was one of the most incredible sights he’d ever seen. There was nothing particularly erotic about the way his body was angled; he just fit, pale against the dark bedding. Harry imagined he could touch Draco for hours and never grow tired of trying to get a reaction from his controlled lips. The idea of seeing how long before Draco would snap like a weathered branch and tumble headlong into desire appealed to Harry. 

He was beautiful. His body begged to be touched, teased, worshipped. And he was all Harry’s to do with as he wanted. He trusted Harry as absolutely as Harry trusted him, and that feeling reached out and ran along Harry’s skin until he was staring, enraptured by the vision of a man who appeared cold to the outside world, but had let Harry into the warm centre that he guarded as though it were the difference between life and death. Somehow, Harry had deconstructed the walls and insinuated himself into the life of a man he couldn’t bear being without; he thought Draco reciprocated the sentiment. Draco had taken an emptiness that Harry hadn’t known had been there and filled it with love and desire that overflowed. There was nothing more meaningful than the ties binding them together.

Harry wanted to say something, but his words were caged and unable to break free. He felt like he _should_ say something, tell Draco how he looked, how he smelled. That he made an amazing sight to behold, that he was the most incredible thing Harry had ever seen. The scars had never detracted from his comeliness, just seemed to add to it, made Draco the imperfect man he was; and that was exactly what Harry wanted and needed. Something inside Harry had broken, the scar leaving behind a physical presence that he felt, rather than saw. When Draco had come along, he’d taken the poorly-moulded pieces and made them fit, fixing something that Harry had been so accustomed to that once the holes had been filled, he noticed. All of the past mistakes had created an ideal partner, given them both something they needed, however unexpected the outcome of the events leading to it had been. 

As he drew closer, Harry could smell the salve on Draco’s arm; it was another mark, one that fostered as much respect as anything else for his lover. And he knew he had earned respect from Draco in return, and that they both regarded it as equally important. Draco didn’t have to say it: it was in every gesture he made, however small. Draco was too proud to accept anything less than he felt he was worth. 

Slowly, Draco bent his knees as Harry lowered himself to the bed, and as his legs spread, Harry was accorded the best view of his arse, his sac as it rested against him, and his cock as it rose from the neatly cropped curls at the base and rested against his abdomen. The vein along the underside was perfect for Harry’s tongue to glide down, then he could swallow the dark head. He planned to do that. Had to have that feeling of his mouth full of distended flesh and the ceaseless throbs against his palate as he moved forward and withdrew, his hand reciprocating in imperfect synchronicity. 

Harry was off-balance as he accepted the unabashed invitation and moved between Draco’s legs. A whirlwind of leaves tossed, turned, in his stomach as he ran his shaky hands over the sharp curve of Draco’s knees and down Draco’s thighs, his fine hairs brushing against Harry’s palms. His hands gripped tighter and tighter, massaging the hard muscle that quirked beneath the touch. If Draco noticed how unsteady Harry’s hands were, he didn’t comment; he lay relaxed, his breaths coming in an even rhythm that goaded Harry’s rapidly-beating heart and erratic breaths. Draco had so much self-control. He didn’t even reach out to touch himself, relieve any of the pressure Harry knew he must have been feeling, too.

That struck Harry. Draco wasn’t taking any of Harry’s pleasure at moulding Draco’s reactions away; he was giving them to Harry with his pliant posture, demanding nothing with his complete offering of himself. He didn’t have to make a sound; it was clear to Harry how much Draco gave of himself, his understated expressions the worst gauge to determine his pleasure. Being on his back, with his knees bent and displaying himself just for Harry; his invitation.

Slightly embarrassed, Harry asked, “Do I need to… prepare you?” He had no idea if Draco had done it already, or whether he even wanted that. But given that he had done it for Harry, Harry felt the need to offer the same courtesy, at least until Draco was used to being fucked again. Harry liked that feeling of being sunken into, his arsehole tight and aching as it was stretched by Draco’s cock, even though Draco feared hurting him. Making him uncomfortable at all was the last thing Harry wanted; a situation like that which had sent Draco off the deep end was out of the question. 

“I haven’t had anything but your fingers in me for nearly a year, Potter. Preparation would be a good idea, yes. I’ll feel like a virgin for you anyway.”

A flush darkened Harry’s cheeks. And something occurred to him as he looked down at Draco. “But you... when you moved into Hightrees...”

Draco snorted softly. “I hadn’t let Benedict do me for a good three or four months before that.”

Harry couldn’t explain why, but he leaned forward and braced himself against the bed, dropping his lips to Draco’s. A soft moan rolled between them as their bodies connected and hard flesh rubbed together. Gentle friction that Harry couldn’t stop intensifying once it had started burned between them. His hips lowered and rotated, dragging them together, separated them, and started again. The sensation was like a breeze on a scorching summer day, one that was just enough to give respite from the heat, but not enough to quell it completely. 

He broke the kiss, but didn’t go far. He ran his lips along Draco’s jaw and began to work his way down. Draco’s neck was too fascinating to ignore, so Harry nipped playfully. An answering shiver was received each time his teeth latched on and he sucked. Draco tipped his head back, his hands moving up Harry’s sides. Harry had been wondering how long it would be before Draco chose to tempt Harry with his touch. 

His fingers were confident as they moved against Harry’s flanks. It wasn’t demanding, but Harry felt certain it was a nudge to stop playing, stop delaying the inevitable. But Harry was enjoying delivering kisses to Draco’s skin and taking his time to appreciate the uneven lines and contours of Draco’s body. He moaned against Draco’s chest as he worked his way lower; grinding his hips softly and feeling Draco rocking into him was only a sample of the entire package. Beneath the layers of trappings hid something that he had been desiring and would finally have – if he reached out and took it. 

Heady from arousal, Harry shifted, reaching for the bottle of oil in the bedside table drawer. He eased his thumb under the cap and pushed. It opened with a sharp _crack_. Grey eyes watched Harry’s movements as he sat back and tipped the bottle to coat his fingers. Draco’s legs were already wide in invitation. 

Harry extended his gleaming fingers and traced Draco’s arsehole, spreading the lubricant. Muscles contracted against his fingertips, and he pushed forward, slowly easing inside. The heat of Draco’s body wrapped around two fingers with each glide. He felt Draco slacken around him, his body accepting Harry’s careful movement. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. Harry remained focussed on what he was doing; he pressed another finger in; Draco clamped around him, then released slowly. He felt familiar, hot, slick. Harry’s cock throbbed to be buried inside him, thrusting and feeling Draco fully. He listened to the sound of oil and Draco’s body, smelt the sweat and undeniable scent of man in the sultry air of the room.

Draco arched into Harry’s hand, murmuring, “I’m ready,” when Harry made no move to fuck him. Now that he knew Draco was ready, Harry rose to his knees and poured oil on his cock as he removed his fingers from Draco. A fiery coil tightened within him as he shifted forward and pulled his foreskin back. Pressing the head of his cock to Draco, he leant forward and braced himself as Draco opened around him. He exhaled harshly, overwhelmed. 

Around him, just as easily as Draco had opened, he contracted again, a fist to hold Harry, tight and unyielding; the opposite of his legs rising around Harry’s hips as he sank deeper. He was like water beneath Harry, fluid and smooth as he gave, spread open further. Harry wanted to move slowly, make it last. But Draco’s body pulsing around him, drawing him in further, drove away sense and restraint. 

Steady, Harry rocked his hips back and forth; slow thrusts that made it feel like Draco’s slick warmth licked his cock as he slid in – withdrew. Draco met his thrusts, his hands moving along Harry’s flanks as he flexed and pulled Harry against him. And Harry was alive with sensation. It caressed his skin every time a drop of sweat rolled over his back, every time Draco’s fingers tightened against him. 

His hips jerked, and he moaned with the harder drive of his cock into Draco.

Something in him snapped. The slow thrusts became harder. Draco’s body rocked with each punctuated slam of Harry’s hips. It felt too good to stop; all of that tight muscle surrounding him, clenching and refusing to let go, made it difficult to control the erratic movement. 

Draco sighed, arching against Harry. Harry’s senses, like fog creeping across the ground, came back. Startled, he stopped abruptly and looked at Draco. “You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, panting. A memory of a similar scenario bubbled up in his thoughts; he quickly forced it aside.

For a moment, Draco looked at Harry in incomprehension. With a look of polite incredulity, he replied, “I’d tell you if I was.”

Harry nodded, and leaned forward to kiss Draco, then nipped his neck, his tongue sliding over the heated surface. His foolishness had surprised him enough to make his cock soften slightly. But the tensing around him and being able to touch, kiss, rekindled what had been dampened by mist.

“Good. You feel incredible,” he said, easing his hips forward again. A shudder ran through him at the sensation. Watching Draco, fucking him, Harry was lost. Draco was beautiful: his lips were parted and glistening from a swipe of his tongue, his eyes half-lidded. Strokes of his hands moved along Harry’s ribs and back. His fingers clutched at Harry’s arms, then moved through his hair. Harry turned his head into the touch, kissing the inside of Draco’s wrist when he drew his fingers across Harry’s face. And like the vine of a moonflower twisting to find the silvery rays of night, Draco’s legs twined around Harry further; seeking to get Harry deeper, closer.

The desire to make it last, keep their bodies together as long as possible, kept Harry’s impulses at bay. But it had been over a year since he’d fucked anyone, and every time he found a rhythm, almost-overwhelming pleasure lanced through him. He faltered hearing Draco’s sighs, feeling Draco’s body moving against him.

“God, you’re so tight I could come right now,” Harry panted, restraining the urge to let go.

Draco laughed softly. “Don’t let me stop you. I’ve been waiting to feel that for bloody months.” The timbre of his voice was different, a note Harry hadn’t heard before.

Harry groaned. He had, too. The words were like a puff of breath against a smouldering flame, easing it back to life. 

Draco clenched around him, arched tightly and moaned, a sound that shot down Harry’s spine and forced his hips forward quickly. 

“Draco, stop. God, I don’ wan’ to come yet.” And Draco arched again, moaned loudly, as Harry tried to hold the tethers of reality. “You’ll moan just to feel me come inside you?” Harry asked breathlessly.

“Right now, I’ll do anything you want me to.” Unsteadily, Draco’s voice met Harry’s ears, undisguised want in his husky tone. For a moment, Harry wondered if the moan had been a true reaction to pleasure. Draco’s pupils were wide and dark, a lunar eclipse. Faint heat stained his face, neck and chest.

Harry shivered, unable to stop moving. He wanted Draco to stop goading him; hearing Draco moan, feeling him so tight and wet around him, below him, severed the threads of coherence. 

Draco looked directly into Harry’s eyes. “Harry, _please_.”

His name sucked Harry into the whirlwind of pleasure, blind and fiery as it moved through him. Draco moaned again, undulating and writhing, teasing Harry. No matter how much Harry wanted to hold on, he couldn’t. He grunted, his hips snapping forward harshly. He stopped, his pelvis pressed as close to Draco’s body as possible. The slow burn became an inferno, consumed him. “Draco,” he panted, a whimper escaping his lips as he sought breath. He came, filling Draco as every muscle in his body tightened. Reflexively, his hips jerked and he forced his cock inside Draco again. 

Harry wasn’t sure if he should be angry or touched that Draco had wanted him to come so much that he had manipulated him into doing it, even though Harry had wanted to hold off. His arms trembled slightly and he felt Draco shift, sending an intense shockwave through him at the sensitivity. He gasped, and Draco’s arms wrapped around him tightly, pulling Harry to his chest. 

Every thought in Harry’s head left him. They were breath, heartbeats, skin pressing against skin with each inhale. Recognition was slow; no more than a few minutes of stunned silence passed. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Harry asked, concerned. 

Draco gave him another look of polite incredulity. “No. Don’t move, please,” he requested, his own movement stopping.

“Anything you want.” Harry settled comfortably, his cock still in Draco’s arse. “I hurt Ginny when we tried it,” he blurted, his face heating up.

Draco stretched, his back arching luxuriantly, his hips remaining still. “You didn’t hurt me.” He considered for a moment. “It was rather wonderful, in fact. You may do that again.” Harry laughed as Draco smiled. “Imminently.” 

“If I had been pants, you’d have said I can’t do it again?” Harry asked, bemused.

“I wouldn’t have put it quite that bluntly.” Draco was affectionate, his words gently teasing. It felt good. 

Running his lips over Draco’s chest, Harry chuckled softly. “I’m glad. You feel brilliant around me. Did I feel that good?” he asked, not out of insecurity, but curiosity. 

Smiling lopsidedly, Draco replied, “You felt heavenly.” Meditatively, he added, “You still do. Always.”

Harry smiled, unable to stop himself. He buried his face against Draco’s chest, inhaled his scent, and placed light kisses along his collarbone. “I’m never letting you go,” he remarked, running his fingers across Draco’s side.

“Good,” Draco said, his tone still languorous and sincere.

It occurred to Harry, having started wondering about why Draco wanted Harry to fuck him or finger him when he didn’t derive the same pleasure from it as Harry, to wonder just what _was_ in it for Draco; he seemed partial to it, whatever the reason. He remembered what Luna had told him and decided to ease into asking about it. When he caught his breath properly, he’d take care of Draco’s erection. 

“So quiet all the time, and then do all that just to make me come,” Harry commented.

“I wanted you to,” Draco said, moving his hands lazily along Harry’s back, body torpid beneath Harry. 

“Hard to say no when you feel that good. I couldn’t help it. Every time you squeezed me… I just… wanted to fill you, be deeper in you, and couldn’t get there fast enough.” Harry flushed, seeing a smile that looked like sex and depravity on Draco’s face. “I don’t have your self-control.”

Draco laughed. “You’re perfect as you are.”

Humming, Harry rubbed his cheek against Draco’s nipple. “Why did you want that, when you can’t get off that way?” 

Draco avoided the question. “I don’t have to get off to like it.”

“You don’t have to tell me. But I can’t deny I want to know.”

Draco paused for a moment. “I wanted you to experience it. I wanted to feel you experience it. I take pleasure in your pleasure, Potter. You know that.” 

“I do,” Harry confirmed, licking Draco’s neck, teasing the edge with this teeth, then biting. Draco’s prior invitations to do so told him he liked that. And he tipped his head back [again], offering the tight line to Harry. 

“And I… just wanted to. Feel you like that. I just wanted to,” he concluded awkwardly. 

“Did you like it?” Harry asked, the desire to straddle Draco’s hips, pull Draco’s cock into his arse and be fucked, growing in him. And to tease Draco, to take Draco’s erection and suck him until he had every indication that Draco was about to come before stopping and changing direction. He liked Draco wanting him as much as he wanted Draco; he wanted to be as good a lover, unselfish like Draco had been with his pleasure. “Did you like making me lose it completely with just a few words and your body?”

“Shut up. Stop fishing for compliments.” 

“I wasn’t,” Harry said seriously. Draco seemed to pull Harry closer than he already was. “I want to do something for you.” Harry’s voice was husky, still thrumming with arousal. “Are you going to complain if I move?”

“Where are you planning on going?” Draco asked, his whole body tensing around Harry. 

“Not far.” Harry grinned, his cock giving a jerk. “Between your legs, I think.”

Draco drawled, “I hate to point out the obvious, Potter, but that’s where you are already.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I can’t really reach your cock with my mouth from here, can I?”

Considering, Draco said, “I suppose not,” but he showed no immediate disposition to release his hold.

Harry rocked his hips a bit, his still half-hard cock slipping in oil and semen. “Mmm, then maybe you should let go. You like my hair, anyway.” He grinned and licked Draco’s throat again.

“This is true, but I must confess that I can’t immediately see the significance.” Draco rocked back reflexively. 

“My mouth on your cock.”

“I’m still somewhat at sea. Where does this—” Draco ran his fingers through Harry’s hair, “—come into it?”

Harry moaned, tilting his head into the touch. “You doing that while I suck your cock. I like when you do that when I suck you off as much as you like doing it.”

Humming, Draco dug his fingers through Harry’s hair again. “Alright.” 

Canting his hips, Harry showed Draco how much he was turned on by the thoughts rushing through his head, how much he wanted to fuck Draco again, how much he wanted to be fucked. Being with Draco was a constant storm. He let it whip around him, found himself pelted by the feelings and sensations.

Free from Draco’s hold, Harry slithered down Draco’s body. “Keep your legs open,” Harry said, flushing, his eyes roaming over Draco’s form like fingers. A trail of come seeped from Draco’s arse and connected with the sheets. Seeing that made Harry’s heart beat faster, his cock ache; just like Draco’s lying sticky against his pelvis.

Without thought, Harry leaned forward and licked, gathered his own come against his tongue, and drew it across Draco’s perineum to his balls. An appreciative shudder answered; Harry flattened his tongue and traced Draco’s sac, fine hairs tickling it with each swipe. Pressure and a pulse of electricity moved through him as Draco’s fingers threaded through his hair; Harry pulled back, looked down, and put his hands on the inside of Draco’s thighs. 

He leaned forward again, pressed his face into Draco’s arse and smelled sweat and semen and Draco. Undeniably male, beautiful. It felt like the scent flowed through him, drew him forward. Harry shifted, and extended his tongue, pushing it into Draco, tasting the bitterness. “Fuck,” he said, no other words appropriate for the way he felt: so full, and alive, like Draco was every fantasy he’d ever had. It was confusing and rapturous, full of scent, flavour: his and Draco’s. He couldn’t explain it, only feel it as he looked up and found himself turned on at the sight. He had claimed Draco in return. 

Wanting to taste Draco’s cock, Harry moved his tongue along the same path; didn’t stop when he reached the head of Draco’s cock, or when Draco arched into his mouth. Harry wanted it to be good for Draco, needed Draco in him. There was no need for Draco to take his time, prepare Harry. He sucked Draco’s cock into his mouth, his saliva coating Draco and making him wet and slick, perfect for Harry’s arse.

Harry felt there was enough of his spit on Draco’s cock. He stopped, then looked at Draco.

“Potter, that’s not funny!”

“I’m not laughing,” Harry said. “Help me.”

“Help you do what?” Draco demanded, his fingers in Harry’s hair, trying to push his mouth back to Draco’s cock. One look, one touch, and Harry felt the current of Draco’s endless desire sweep over him. Harry’d never felt so good before. About anything. Draco’s lust electrified him; everything about it made him feel needed and loved.

“Put your cock in my arse.”

Draco growled, the sound running through Harry’s bones. He dragged Harry up, started to roll them, but Harry grabbed Draco’s wrists and pinned them to the bed.

“No. Here. Like this,” Harry demanded. Slowly he released his hold, and rose up as Draco helped position his cock right where Harry wanted it. Back bowed, Harry moaned, and spread his legs wider, feeling Draco drive deeper. Harry looked down. “Fuck me.”

Draco’s expression was savage as Harry braced himself and felt Draco’s thighs against his buttocks. He flexed and rose up, and Draco’s body crashed into him, forcing a moan from him.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry panted, feeling the sharpness of inadequate lubrication and the power of Draco’s thrusts; his hands were on Harry’s hips, gripping and holding him in place. He was going to come again; all of the teasing and long-awaited release and claiming of Draco had wound him tight. Now he was a spool unwinding. The force of Draco’s hips and cock tore through Harry, and he ground hard against the stretching and tumultuous rush of sensation. 

He sucked in a sharp lungful of air, panting, and pleading incoherently. Fire ripped through him. White smeared across Draco’s belly as muscles tightened and the over-sensitive head of his prick spilled. A harsh and victorious sound burst from Draco as he came; Harry was too addled to make sense of it; he felt boneless, his arms and legs quivering as Draco’s final thrust electrified his sensitive prostate. Then Draco wrapped his arms around Harry and pulled him to his chest hard, not letting go. 

There were no words. Only the soft grunts of pleasure and satiation as he tried to get enough air to keep his head from feeling as though it was floating away. The sound of Draco’s orgasm replayed in his thoughts, satisfaction rushing through him. They were sweaty and sticky and the room smelled like sex. Harry’s heart pounded angrily in his chest, the constant beating slowing with each moment that passed. He didn’t want to move; he felt too secure to want anything more than Draco was giving.

“If anyone who isn’t me ever lays a hand on your arse again, I may have to rip their eyes out with a tuning fork,” Draco panted, his fingers tight against Harry’s back. 

“I don’t want anyone else to touch me,” Harry promised.

“Good.”

When Harry had caught his breath, relaxed, he said, “I never thought I’d have anything like this.”

“You’ll get deeper when you have me on my knees.” 

Laughing, Harry clarified, “That’s... not what I meant.”

“I know. But you will.” 

“Mmm.” Harry moved his arms for comfort. “What are we doing today?”

Putting his nose in Harry’s hair, Draco replied, “Shagging?”

Amused, Harry laughed again. “Mmm. So we don’t have to move all day. Good.”

“We could shag somewhere else.” 

“Alright,” Harry replied, amenable to anything. He rested his cheek on Draco’s chest, letting the heat of Draco’s body move through him, cling to him. He closed his eyes.

“Do you think you might be inclined to fuck me again in another four or five hours?” Draco’s tone was oddly hopeful.

“Mmm,” Harry confirmed, all of his energy having been drained away. 

“Good.”

They were silent for a long time; Draco’s hold hadn’t slackened, but Harry didn’t mind. He was worried, though, that Draco was uncomfortable. “Wan’ me to move?” he asked sleepily.

Draco’s hold grew tighter. “No. You can stay there for the rest of our lives, if you like.” 

All Harry had the energy for was a light laugh. “Thank you. This is... best birthday.” He adjusted again, finding the most comfortable position with his knees still bent and Draco’s cock still inside him.

Draco kissed his head. “Go to sleep, Harry.”

A shiver ran along Harry’s spine. “Almos’ don’ wan’ to miss anythin’.” He sighed sleepily and whispered, “Lov’ you, Draco.”

Another kiss was pressed to Harry’s head. “You won’t. The world can wait for you to wake up. I’ll make it, if I have to.” 

At ease, Harry drifted in Draco’s restful presence and fell into sleep, feeling happier than he’d ever known.

**~*~*~*~**

In the morning, Draco’s hand tickling Harry’s arse roused him from sleep. Their cocks were hard between them. “Mmm.” Harry ground into Draco, feeling Draco spread his legs in invitation. It seemed he hadn’t moved much during the night. Or Draco had positioned him for comfort; it didn’t matter. He knew what Draco wanted, and Harry wanted to give it.

“You’re not going to get sore?” he asked, looking up and blinking slowly.

Draco blinked back and arched with deliberate intent. “No.”

“Wand?” Harry asked, his brain still trying to catch up.

“No need,” Draco said, surprising Harry. The knowledge that Draco hadn’t moved, had left Harry’s come in him and hadn’t cleaned them both was one of the filthiest and most arousing things he’d ever known. Moaning softly, Harry positioned himself and angled into Draco. When he came, he reached for Draco’s erection; Draco stilled his hand.

“Later.” He ran his hands through Harry’s hair and rose up to kiss him. “After breakfast.”

Disappointed, Harry asked, “Promise?” despite knowing Draco wouldn’t deny him that. 

“Anything you want,” he replied.

Sighing, Harry said, “A shower, right now.” Then he kissed Draco, stretched, and headed to the shower, with Draco trailing along behind him.

It felt good to have Draco lavish him with all of his focus as he washed Harry’s body. They took turns, cleaning one another, and Harry wanted a mark on Draco’s neck, so he left one, high enough that he would be able to see it over the edge of Draco’s collar when he was dressed. A grin moved across Harry’s face. That mark on Draco’s neck, visible to everyone, showed his willingness to be seen belonging to someone; and while Harry felt embarrassed by other people having any idea what went on in their rooms, his possessive side loved that anyone with half a brain would realise Draco was off limits.

Opting for comfort, Harry pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and left the dressing room to see what awaited them for breakfast. He sat down and had some tea while he waited for Draco to dress and join him. 

The door from the bedroom opened and Harry looked up. With a smile, he asked, “That for me?” Draco looked good; formal robes suited him perfectly. Even with the purplish patch just below his jaw, visible above the lower collar against his pale complexion. 

Draco smiled lopsidedly. “Happy birthday.”

A faint flush stole across Harry’s cheeks as he stared at Draco, marvelling at how good he looked, how much the robes he had chosen suited him. “You really do look good in those. I can’t decide if I want to take them off you or leave them on half the time.”

Draco crossed to Harry and pulled Harry into his arms, kissing him leisurely. ”My apparel wasn’t actually what I meant.” His hands crept up to Harry’s shoulders and turned him around. 

“Mmm. You were an extremely early birthday present. But I’m not going to complain.” Harry leaned his head back against Draco, seeing the present on the table. A warm flush moved across his cheeks as he looked at it. Draco Summoned it, and held it for Harry to take. 

Harry accepted the present and smiled, feeling giddy. It was heavy, and as Harry tore the paper away, revealing a leather-bound book, he looked at the title and felt a stream of warmth and awe move through him. It was a genealogy of Harry’s family, the pages brimming with detailed information about his antecedents. Harry opened it and turned the pages slowly, touching them lightly.

“Draco, how did you do this?” he asked in wonderment.

Draco kissed the side of his head. “I told you that the wizarding genealogies are in the library. They’re in _any_ halfway decent library. As for your mother’s side... I have to admit that I enlisted professional help, there.”

Happy, Harry turned and pulled Draco to him for a kiss. “Thank you,” he said, looking at Draco with undisguised love.

“You have living relatives apart from your aunt and uncle and repellent cousin,” Draco said.

“Wonder if I know any of them....”

“I don’t believe so. There are only a handful of very great aunts on your father’s side. But you have second cousins on your mother’s.” Harry nodded; Draco reached out and pushed his hand through Harry’s still-wet hair. “And your mother’s father is still alive.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “H-he is?” But Draco’s grave nod was like a trickle of water flowing toward a fire. “You know where he is.”

He nodded again. “He’s in a nursing home in Pembrokeshire.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“A disorder of the mind. I’m afraid magic is as helpless to treat it as Muggle medicine.” It was odd to see Draco appear mildly dissatisfied by the notion, not knowing if it meant he cared for some reason, or whether there was something else behind the look.

“But he’s still alive,” Harry said, a smile spreading on his face. The rest didn’t matter; he had some connection to his mother.

“He... has only limited orientation to the world around him. As closely as I have been able to determine, he believes the year to be nineteen sixty four. He intermittently remembers more. But he usually believes his eldest great-nephew to be his son, and has taken his niece for his wife on several occasions.”

Irritation with Petunia rose within him, but he shoved it aside, more concerned with what else Draco knew. Draco having met his grandfather was proof that he was alive and real. It felt good to know that he had more than Petunia and Vernon, that there was someone he could learn about and have, filling part of the gap he’d felt for many years.

“Your aunt and uncle were wholly estranged from him.”

Harry nodded. “I can go see him, though. At least meet him.” Around the bitterness that Dumbledore and the Dursleys had never told him he had living relatives, Harry smiled, grateful that Draco had given him something he’d always wanted. Having family had been a dream that Harry always woke up from, and now he was waking to find that the dream was more reality than he’d ever dared hope.

Draco smiled in return. “And there are your second cousins. His brother’s children, and their children.”

Knowing how Draco was, Harry asked, “Did you contact them?”

Draco shook his head. “Three of them are police officers, two are teachers, and one runs—” he coughed, “—an ‘occult supplies’ shop.” 

Amused, Harry chuckled at his living relatives’ professions. Draco smiled lovingly as Harry ran his fingers across his curved lips. Leaning forward, Draco kissed Harry, saying against his lips, “Mrs Prout would like to see you.”

Harry shoved his first urge to speak aside and cleared his throat. “Alright. After we eat.” A smile flickered on his lips as he turned to look at Draco, then headed to the bedroom to put the book away. 

When he returned, Draco fed him at every opportunity. Specially-made delicacies lined the table, and Harry looked on at how much effort Mrs Prout had put into making his first birthday in his new home something to remember. A smile crept over his face. 

Flitter popped into the sitting room and requested Draco’s presence in Narcissa’s room. A few moments later, a knock came at the door and Mrs Prout entered with a colourful box in her hands. Her expression was fond, warm, as she smiled and extended the box to Harry. He accepted it and sat on the sofa, tearing the bright paper.

Opening the lid revealed two rectangles swathed in cloth. Harry peeled it back and lifted the frame revealed beneath the folds of fabric. He turned over the frame, a slow smile creeping across his face as he looked at a Muggle-style watercolour painting of him, Teddy, and Draco as they had been the afternoon Harry had fallen in the shower; when Teddy had taken Draco’s wand and been shocked by it; when he’d taken Teddy flying for the first time since he’d been able to walk. Fascinated, Harry placed the first on the sofa beside him and lifted the second, revealing another painting, only this one was of him sleeping and Draco watching him with that expression that came over his face when he thought no one else was looking. For long time he stared at it, entranced by the realness she had worked into the picture from her memory of them all together. It was perfect; that Mrs Prout had taken the time to craft them for his birthday made him incredibly happy.

“Thank you, Eleanor. They’re brilliant,” Harry said, standing, his throat tight. He wanted the painting of him and Draco in the bedroom, where he could see it. She extended her arms, and Harry went to her without a thought, welcomed into her loving and secure embrace: it was warm and unconditional – familiar, yet not. She kissed his cheek and smiled beautifully.

“Happy birthday, dear,” she said, patting his cheek. With a smile, she excused herself to tend to her children’s lunches. Wanting to find the perfect place for the paintings, Harry hugged her again and turned to gather both of them from the sofa. He went to the bedroom and looked around; Draco walked in while he was considering the walls, and regarded the two paintings held in Harry’s hands impassively. 

“She has a fine eye for colour,” Draco remarked at length.

Harry nodded. “You don’t mind this one in here, do you?” he asked, holding up the one of him and Draco.

“Not in the least. She’s captured your expression perfectly.”

“And yours.” Harry smiled.

Surveying the painting critically, Draco said, “I suppose so,” and waved his wand, detaching a painting of a unicorn already on the wall. “There?” he asked. “Or instead of the seascape?”

“I like the seascape.”

“We could just move the seascape.” 

Harry shook his head. “We can work that out later.”

Smiling, Draco said, “As it pleases you. Do you want the unicorn somewhere else, or shall I have Flitter return it to storage?” 

“Storage, I think. We can put the one of us and Teddy in the sitting room.” Startled by his quick response, Harry smiled and looked at Draco. Relief, like a breeze, moved through him; he had made a decision, without asking Draco about it first. It felt good to have finally grown comfortable in his new surroundings, with his new self, to remember the familiarity of being in control of his circumstances.

“Would you like to choose a place for it now, or later?” 

“Might as well do it now,” Harry said, going to the sitting room. Draco followed, and Harry eyed the paintings, determining the ones he liked. There was a painting of a tree that was gnarled and ugly, one he didn’t feel really fit in their suite. “Over there, I think.” He pointed.

“It’ll be well lit most of the day, there.” Draco removed the tree and replaced it with the one of them and Teddy.

“I didn’t know she painted.” Harry took a seat on the sofa. Draco hadn’t moved to follow. “Join me?” he invited.

Smiling, Draco sat beside him and wrapped an arm around him in the same position they watched films in. Comfortable, Harry leaned his head on Draco’s shoulder, feeling Draco’s fingers stroke his neck.

“This is nice. We can stay like this all day.”

“If you like.”

“Do you want to watch something?”

“Granger’s expression when she walks in and has to see you croodling with me.” There was slightly malicious amusement in his tone. 

Harry couldn’t help laughing; he had no idea how Hermione, or any of the others, would react. “Mmm. Alright.”

Kissing the side of Harry’s head, Draco continued meditatively, “Dawlish should be entertaining. Weasley may attack me. Shacklebolt can probably be relied on to behave with circumspection. My mother certainly will.”

“So you’ll sit here with me like this, no matter who calls today?” Harry asked. What Draco was giving him wasn’t required, but it was appreciated; he didn’t think he could have anything else for his birthday to make him happier, not with Draco’s willingness to sit with him, be seen in an intimate situation, especially by Harry’s friends. They’d barely touched in Hermione or Ron’s presence, let alone been seen sitting together with Draco’s arm around Harry’s shoulder and Harry’s hand resting on his thigh. 

“If you want me to, yes.”

“Not if you’re uncomfortable.” Harry stroked Draco’s thigh absently.

Draco kissed his head again. “I will do whatever you want me to do.”

“Alright, then; I don’t want you do something that’s going to make you uncomfortable. I know propriety is important to you.”

The familiar feeling of Draco putting his nose in Harry’s hair brought a smile to his face. He had a feeling it was going to be an interesting day.

**~*~*~*~**

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Luna said as the door closed behind Draco, pulling a bottle of swirling mist from her pocket and placing it on the table before him. It looked like ghosts danced inside the otherwise-empty wine bottle, trying to break free. Harry stared at it for a long time, a faint memory surfacing in his thoughts of a similar bottle. 

Leaning forward, Harry picked it up and watched the argent tendrils swirl around one another, then looked at Luna and asked, “What the hell is this?”

Ignoring Harry’s question, Luna moved from the chair she sat in and crouched on the floor in front of him, and started singing in a language Harry had never heard before and suspected wasn’t real. Resigned to Luna’s idiosyncrasies, Harry shook his head, thinking that once she was done with her song, she’d stand up and twirl out of the room like she usually did. But she didn’t. She stopped singing and kissed Harry’s toes. 

“Luna! Stop that!”

She turned a dreamy smile at Harry and said, “Your toes are cold because you don’t take care of them. You should talk to them more.” She tilted her head to the side and grew bold. Sticking out her tongue, she ran it across Harry’s foot. Harry tried not to kick her as he attempted to inch away, but the way she was sitting, it was impossible not to kick her. 

“Luna!” Harry admonished, as the door opened again.

“Lovegood, stop that this instant!” 

Luna turned and smiled at Draco; he gave her one of his sternest looks, a shade of exasperation mitigating his true feelings. 

Backing off, she pointed out, “Harry's toes are cold.” She had a glazed-over look in her eyes that made Harry wonder if she’d been messing with potions before she had arrived.

“Licking them will not remedy that. If you want to warm his toes, give him a pair of socks. If I catch you licking my fiancé again, I will give you a rotting disease.” 

Luna stood up. “Happy birthday, Harry.” She smiled and ran her hand down Harry’s jean-clad leg; he tried to pull away. 

“Lovegood!” 

“You’re beautiful.” She tilted her head to the side, still smiling at Harry. “Draco’s lucky. I’ll see you at dinner,” she said with an enigmatic look on her face. Harry thought she wanted to say something else, but she turned and left them alone. Draco scowled after her, and Harry turned the bottle, catching Draco’s attention and apparently putting any thoughts of retribution to be delivered for Luna’s vagaries out of his head.

“Oh,” Draco said.

“I’ve seen this sort of thing before. What memories would she want to show me?” 

“I have an unpleasant feeling that I know.” Draco eyed the bottle with acute dislike.

“What... is it?” he asked, feeling that he already knew the answer, based on Draco’s reaction. “Do you want to watch?” 

Draco sighed. “I sometimes loathe that woman with every fibre of my being. She’s almost invariably right, though, infuriatingly. Potter, before you view anything, you need to prepare your mind for a shock. Or more likely several shocks.” 

Lost, Harry asked, “Right about what? What shock?” 

Draco took a measured breath. “I will be... astonished if the contents of that vial do not turn out to be a collection of her favourite moments having sex with me.” He cleared his throat. “Or possibly those she considers most educational.” 

Flushing, Harry stammered, “What exactly is she supposed to be right about?” 

“I’m not sure. But if she thinks you ought to see that, she’s probably right. She generally is,” Draco replied sourly.

“A-alright.” 

Draco regarded Harry for a moment. “I can guarantee that it will be graphic. It’s very likely to be deviant. Probably extremely deviant.” 

“A-alright.” Harry cleared his throat and called Flitter for a Pensieve and waited uncomfortably. The large bowl appeared on the table and Harry tipped the contents of the vial into the swirling, mirror-like surface of the liquid inside. “A-are you coming?” he asked, realising belatedly it was a poor joke, given what Draco had said to expect. Draco appeared not to have recognised it because he nodded and went to stand beside Harry.

Harry reached out and took Draco’s hand and plunged his face into the bowl. They dropped onto the dream-like floor, and a flush immediately broke out on his face. Watching Draco fuck Luna was awkward. He was obviously younger, not long out of Hogwarts, probably after Azkaban, if his height and build were anything to go by. Looking at him so drawn and skinny and even visibly frightened and desperate made Harry feel uncomfortable. He hadn’t known much about Draco then, and hadn’t spared even a thought for him after returning his wand, but he didn’t think in retrospect he had deserved the things he’d been through. Now Harry wished that things could have been different; wondering what would have happened if their lives hadn’t been defined for them, if Harry hadn’t been such an arse.

The scene shifted almost immediately to another similar, only Draco was slightly older and healthier. A feeling of guilty arousal rose in Harry as he watched, only to choke slightly when the scene shifted again, and the difference was that Luna was fucking Draco.

Blinking rapidly, Harry watched, casting a glance at Draco, who he found difficult to read; the irritation was obvious, but that was it. Confused, Harry bore the scenes with patience until the next shift showed Luna talking to Draco. In her dreamy voice, she suggested something that Harry couldn’t quite understand. Draco appeared reluctant, but that didn’t stop him. There was something unfamiliar about his expression that made Harry’s stomach twist, the difficulty reading Draco making him feel even sicker. He moved to the bed and positioned himself on his hands and knees; Luna moved behind him. One by one, she inserted her fingers into Draco’s arse, pouring lube down them and into Draco. She spent a long time opening him and pressing deeper, until she had her whole hand buried in Draco’s arse. There was barely any reaction from Draco in the memory, and Harry found that watching Luna as she either didn’t notice or ignored his lack of arousal, was slightly sickening. 

Harry was startled and confused, wondering why Draco had agreed to have her whole hand in his arse when he obviously hadn’t liked the notion and just as obviously hadn’t enjoyed the experience. Knowing that Draco didn’t get the same pleasure from penetration, he couldn’t understand. He didn’t have enough time to question it, though, because their surroundings changed again, and again, and again. 

Uncomfortable watching Draco Polyjuice into Harry, dress as a woman, let Luna choke him, and myriad other sexual kinks from which he plainly derived little if any pleasure, Harry suffered a bewildering, distressing range of emotions: anger over circumstances driving Draco to allow himself to be cut, burned and pierced, fist fucked, submitting in place of volition, and everything else; confusion over his own arousal at seeing Draco tied up and wanting to feel that himself and watching as Draco came on command – feeling guilty that he couldn’t deny wanting to try that, too, and wondering whether or not Draco had ever done that with him; sickness at Draco and Luna taking turns choking one another. It was clear that Draco had got off, and hadn’t always been unwilling, but he didn’t look comfortable; seeing that reinforced Harry’s dislike of Draco submitting to anything – himself included. Wanting Draco to kiss him, admit to his feelings hadn’t been about desiring control over Draco, but needing to know that what he had seen hadn’t been in his imagination. A wave of revulsion rolled over him as his thoughts jerked to Draco’s early behaviour, before he’d stopped fighting and given into Harry’s pleas for more than a mechanical wank and kisses that were compliance with Harry’s desires and not what Draco had wanted.

He had no idea what to think. Rolf and Luna had had Draco together, both of them fucking him at the same time, his body flat between theirs as Draco lay against Rolf’s chest and Luna knelt between his legs. How Rolf’s cock and Luna’s dildo had fitted into Draco, Harry didn’t know. She looked older to Harry, and every touch was tender in contrast to the way she thrust into Draco. Her expression and bearing, looks she exchanged with Rolf while Draco’s face was buried in his neck, told Harry there was something more, even if he couldn’t understand it, than sexual gratification going on. Knowing Luna, what she was doing was for a reason, even if Harry didn’t know what.

By the time they were deposited on the suite floor again, Harry was dizzy with guilty arousal and faint queasiness. 

“It wasn’t all like that. She could be... kind as well. Well, you saw that.” Draco’s words were quiet, his bearing uncertain and subdued. 

That had been a Luna Harry had never seen before, and wondering where she had learned all that and why she had chosen to do it to Draco when he clearly hadn’t really been into it, Harry sat up and dragged himself onto the sofa. 

“Kind?” Harry asked, shocked.

Draco cleared his throat. “I wasn’t exactly in a particularly good state at first.” 

“Wh—” Harry swallowed. “She… I’ve never seen…”

“She was kind to me.” 

“You let her cut you.” Harry felt like his voice was coming from another country. His brow furrowed as he tried to understand, falling short. He didn’t think he should be fascinated by the ropes and feeling that sort of bondage, not the way Luna had treated Draco. Blinding him, choking him… Harry didn’t have it in him to want those things. But his mind kept pulling him back to the ropes that had restrained Draco as though they were wrapped around his warped thoughts, trying to knot them in place.

Draco looked down. “She was trying to teach me that I was allowed to say no, and still knew how. I wasn’t… in the habit of saying no, then.”

Needing to reassure Draco, Harry grabbed him. “You know I’d never…!” He stopped. “I wouldn’t… ask for any of that.” Something broken about Draco’s tone made Harry speak. The freshness of their rocky start still coursed through Harry’s thoughts, and knowing that Draco hadn’t said no to him, he needed to be reassuring. Even if it fell on deaf ears. 

Startled, Draco blinked. A flush stole over Harry’s face.

“You could. If you wanted to. I don’t... I’ve done it before.” Draco stole a glance at Harry, then looked back at the floor. “I trust you. “ 

“No.” Harry flushed deeper. “Look at me. Please.” The body language, Draco’s tone of voice: all of it begged for reassurance. It was obvious, and Harry thought he must need it with what Harry had just witnessed in the Pensieve memories. When Draco looked up, he pulled him in for a kiss, needing to show that those things didn’t matter; all that mattered was that Harry loved him. It was strange to think that Draco had done so much with one person, possibly more with his other lovers; Harry just hoped that what he could give would be enough. “I don’t... I’d never ask you to do any of that...” He shifted uncomfortably. 

Draco reached out and touched Harry’s cheekbone lightly with his fingertips. “You’re shocked by it.”

“A bit, yeah,” Harry admitted.

Draco nodded. “Repelled?” 

“What? No! You think that?”

Draco’s shoulder twitched in an unfamiliar gesture. “It would be understandable.” 

Harry’s brow furrowed at the new tic. “You honestly think that I’d just... stop loving you because of that?” Harry asked, slightly affronted that Draco _could_ think that. 

“No, certainly not. Just...” Draco frowned. “It would be understandable for you to be a little perturbed by it. I know you’re not that easily swayed.” 

“It was before me. I just... it hurts that... you felt like you... had to do that.” Draco’s attention returned to the floor. “There’s nothing I can do...” _I wish there had been…_

Shrugging, Draco said, “It’s in the past.”

Harry grabbed Draco’s face and kissed him again, his intent obvious. When Harry backed off, Draco shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “I know that there were _some_ things that... interested you.” 

Harry flushed and cleared his throat. “Um, one thing.”

Still looking down, Draco said, “It’s yours. Whatever you want.”

Reaching out, wanting to talk to _Draco_ , and not the top of his head, Harry turned Draco’s chin, encountering no resistance, until their eyes met. “Um… the…” he flushed deeply, “…the ropes,” he mumbled.

Draco nodded. “Alright. I can teach you the right sort of knots.” 

“No… not for you.” Draco frowned as Harry’s flush deepened. “For me…” There was no one else Harry would trust to do it or want to try it with. 

“You wish me to bind you?” Draco’s tone was unsure.

Looking down in embarrassment for the first time, Harry nodded. 

“As you will.”

“Are you, um, alright?” 

A half-smile flickered on Draco’s face. “I think I can safely say that I have very few sordid secrets left, now.” 

“You... you don’t have to tell me anything. I didn’t... I wouldn’t have asked about... _that_.” 

Draco nodded. “Which is probably why she chose to show it to you.” He squared his shoulders, and Harry knew that what he was about to say was difficult for Draco. “You can, if you want to.” 

Harry laughed nervously. “What? Ask what your sordid secrets are?” 

“Or about…” Draco gestured vaguely at the bowl on the table.

“I’ll listen... if you want to tell me, but... I don’t... really think it’s my place to ask. Is it? Just because we’re together doesn’t mean...” Harry gestured. “I mean, I don’t expect to know everything, just because you know about me. It was for medical... yeah?” Harry put his hand on Draco’s neck and stroked it gently.

Leaning very slightly into the touch, Draco said, “I will tell you anything you want to know. I wouldn’t know where to start.” 

“That’s why you don’t like…” Harry murmured, remembering when Draco had bypassed his neck when Harry had asked Draco to show him how to touch him.

“That began with my uncle.” Harry kissed Draco’s throat. “Rabastan. It was his favourite grip on me, I think.” 

“You didn’t deserve that,” Harry said, then cleared his throat. “You’re Draco. Going to be my husband. None of the rest matters.” Saying that wouldn’t be enough, though; Harry recognised that he had to _show_ that none of it mattered. As a small smile flickered on Draco’s face, Harry stood and pulled off his shirt. “Take off your robes,” he said, undoing the button on his jeans and dropping his boxers and jeans to the floor.

It was clear that Draco was startled, but he started at his cuffs, and Harry began at the long line of buttons, knowing that underneath his robes, Draco wore nothing. Having sucked him off after breakfast, Harry had learned that Draco had opted to go without any underthings, and he found it arousing to know that if he wanted, he could shove Draco’s robes up and fuck him any time the mood took him that day. Right then, he wanted Draco to ride him. The thought that Draco believed Harry might be repulsed scared him, and Harry needed to give back everything he could, understanding a bit more of Draco’s past and some of why emotions were so difficult. If Draco had lacked the ability at one time to say no to anything, admitting to something he felt must have been hell. 

“You... if you want more... tell me. Please. I’d... try, but I can’t promise I would do it,” Harry said as he moved along the buttons.

Draco stopped for a moment and regarded Harry incredulously, but it didn’t chase away the niggling thought that the basic fucking they had been doing was enough.

“Just remember, yeah?” Harry pushed Draco’s robe off and admired his naked body. He didn’t know what else to say; he leaned in and kissed Draco. “Shoes,” came the muffled command between kisses. 

Draco scraped his shoes off. “I don’t want Lovegood.” 

“I know.” Harry pulled him to the sofa. He sat, tugging Draco into his lap. 

“I don’t want anything that makes you uncomfortable.” 

“I know. I wouldn’t... know, anyway. You know that. I don’t even know if I’d like you tying me up… but… I want to try.” 

Draco nodded. “Anything you want. But now that you’ve seen…”

“Now that I’ve seen what?” Shifting slightly, Harry stroked Draco’s back.

A light flush moved across Draco’s cheeks. “Seen things you wouldn’t have thought of.” 

“I... I don’t think you enjoyed most of it.” 

Draco gave him a serious look. “It would be different with you.” 

“It would?” Harry asked, disbelieving. Draco touched Harry’s jaw lightly. “I told you... I’d try. But I can’t make any promises.” 

“I didn’t... my relationship with Lovegood wasn’t this. It makes a difference.” 

Harry nodded, understanding what Draco was trying to say, and ran his nose along the underside of his chin. Warmth spread throughout him at Draco’s attempt to express vocally how he felt. “You have everything. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” It was a repetitious reassurance, but Harry felt more than ever that Draco needed to know that he trusted him, particularly after what he had seen. He kissed Draco’s neck, smiling as Draco tilted his head to the side.

“She meant it for the best.” 

“She always does,” Harry chuckled.

“She did help.”

Harry nodded. “She does that, too.” 

“She didn’t include... I did say no. Eventually.” The words came in that firm, reassuring tone that Draco sometimes adopted.

“Oh. I wonder why...” Harry said, moving his hand along Draco’s hip to his cock. Draco watched in mild surprise as Harry stroked him.

“I daresay she thought it wouldn’t make terribly titillating viewing.”

“Oh, and the rest was?” Harry blurted, a darker flush rising on his cheeks. “Sorry.”

Draco’s colour also rose. “There are people who would think so.” 

“It’s not… not because of you. I just… I couldn’t imagine… cutting you or choking you and getting off on it. I don’t want to… hurt you. I’ve done that enough.” Harry traced the line of Draco’s scars across his chest with his free hand.

Draco closed his eyes. “It’s not the same.” 

“You would...? Get off on that?” 

“I don’t know. But it wasn’t like... _that_.”

“We can talk about that later. Right now, I want to fuck you. Show you I’m not repulsed by you. Want you to come for me.” Draco nodded. “Wand?” The wood flew across the room to Draco’s hand, then he offered it to Harry. Surprised that it was Draco’s wand, Harry looked at him. “You want me to use yours?”

Draco flushed again, giving no reply, so Harry kissed him, still stroking Draco’s cock. Tightening his grip on Draco’s wand and focussing on the spell Draco had taught him, he incanted it and then registered alarm as a strange expression came over Draco’s face.

“What? Did I do it wrong?” 

Draco shook his head. “N-no. No, it definitely worked.” The colour on Draco’s face darkened more than Harry had ever seen before as he shifted. “Very much so.” 

Laying the wand on the sofa, Harry slipped his hand over Draco’s hip, between his buttocks and felt why Draco had started squirming in his lap. Lubricant seeped from Draco’s arse, slick and smooth to the touch.

Harry chuckled. “Definitely worked.”

Nodding, Draco commented, “I’m fairly sure this is the best lubricated I’ve ever been.”

Harry flushed. “Your wand must like me.”

A look that called Harry an idiot stared briefly back at him. “Well, yes. Of course it does.”

“Not all wands are like that. You know that. Now, shut up and sit on my cock,” Harry commanded with a grin; he’d been looking forward to saying that even since he’d watched Draco with the cello. 

Gingerly, Draco positioned himself over Harry’s cock and slid down the shaft with a distinct squelch. His arse was still tight, pleasantly rather than punishingly, silky and hot as Harry shifted. Fucking Draco was addictive. He’d had him once and he knew it wouldn’t be enough. 

“So… how fast…” Harry shifted his hips upward, moaning as Draco tightened around him, “…can you get me off?”

Accepting Harry’s challenge, Draco used his body like a weapon, piercing him with the sharp point of every rise and fall of his hips. It went quickly. Draco jerked Harry’s hands from his hips and pinned them against the back of the sofa. Harry’s breathing went ragged, pleasure narrowing to a pinprick. Then Draco moaned, and like seeing light when all there had been was darkness, the pleasure dilated and sensation burst through him. His fingers curled into his fists as he tried to reach for Draco, hold him steady as he came. But Draco didn’t let go.

Panting with a light chuckle, Harry said, “That… that’s cheating.” 

“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” Draco said and leaned forward, licking Harry’s neck.

“No, I didn’t,” Harry agreed. He wanted to repay Draco, but he shifted and rose from the sofa, leaving Harry staring at him as he waved his wand, cleaning both of them. Harry sighed and dressed, knowing that people were waiting to see him. 

The Weasleys spent quite a while with them. Draco had been giving Harry presents almost every hour, and to amuse himself while Harry was occupied with the rest of the family, he showed Mr Weasley the car, complete with L plates, that he’d bought Harry, then proceeded to talk about the magic he’d used to make the television work. Harry liked seeing them, but being around Fleur was highly uncomfortable. Whatever had never bothered him about her presence before hit him full-on, leaving him sitting with an awful headache and an erection, despite having just fucked Draco. It was like smelling a flower too strong, only not wanting to move away from it; Bill gave Harry a knowing look, his nose twitching as a grin swept over his face. 

Apparently deciding that Harry was feeling poorly, Mr Weasley insisted that they leave Harry and Draco alone. With hugs from everyone, presents lining the table from a bottle of champagne to new Quidditch gloves, Harry sat down and tipped his head back against the sofa after the door had closed. He had so many things from the people who loved him: Narcissa had given him a photo of Sirius and Regulus as boys; Andromeda had given him a new scarf; Kingsley had given him a book on how to house-train his pure-blood. Draco hadn’t seen the funny side of that at all. He had tossed it aside and made it clear that he was ready for Harry to blow him, so Harry had gladly, enthusiastically re-discovering Draco’s lack of underthings. 

Flitter appeared with glasses for their champagne, and Draco opened the bottle, giving a glass to Harry. Now that Fleur was gone, the headache was slipping away, but with Draco eyeing his crotch, Harry’s erection only ached with more interest. But Draco gave him a slight respite – Hermione was the next to arrive. Harry ordered juice for her while they indulged in the champagne, Draco wrapped around him and Hermione watching, with a faint flush to her cheeks, taking a strange interest in their position. 

After Hermione left, it didn’t take long for him to end up naked and moaning at Draco’s mouth around him. When Draco had reduced him to a pile of ash, Harry finished two more glasses of champagne, giddy and so relaxed that he fell asleep against Draco, still naked.

**~*~*~*~**

Muzzy from champagne, sex, and Draco’s warmth, Harry woke up to his arm being teased. “Mm. What’s wrong?”

Draco kissed Harry’s temple. “It’s time to dress for dinner.”

“I am dressed,” Harry said sleepily.

“I want to see you in those new robes.” Harry blinked and wiped his eyes at the clothes floating in front of him as Draco spoke. “Or maybe those trousers. The robes sit across your shoulders beautifully, but the trousers really do draw the eye to your arse.”

Slowly, Harry got up and followed them to the dressing room and dressed. Draco ogled Harry’s thighs and backside shamelessly as he emerged and looked around. “Too much champagne,” he muttered, his face flushing at Draco’s expression. Stretching, yawning, Harry asked, “Where to?” They usually ate in the suite; today shouldn’t be any different, as far as Harry was concerned.

“Put a shirt on, or I shall have to ravish you on the table and Mrs Prout will never forgive me for ruining her floral centrepiece.”

Chuckling, Harry went back into the dressing room and grabbed a shirt. Why Draco wanted him dressed for dinner, when any other day Draco would happily watch Harry eat naked, Harry couldn’t begin to imagine. “Anything else I need while I’m in here?” he asked, looking around, his suspicions raised.

“Footwear may be a good idea.”

The temptation to ask what Draco was up to jumped on Harry’s tongue, but he swallowed it, and put socks and shoes on, grabbed his stick from beside the sofa, then went to lean against Draco, since he had no idea what was going on. The reflexive movement of Draco’s palms to his arse made Harry chuckle. 

“We’ll never get out of here if you keep doing that,” Harry pointed out.

Stopping, Draco ran his hands up Harry’s back, his expression regretful. “There really are times I wish I _had_ kept you at the cottage. You could have been naked all the time and lived for nothing but carnal delight.”

Harry laughed, but that wasn’t something he had any interest in, at least not on the face of things and the information he’d got from the former mistresses while talking to them at the cottage. “And then I’d have to wait for you to come to me. I don’t think so. I’ve talked to the mistresses.”

Draco blinked in surprise. “I shall ask you about that at some future date. For now, we need to go down to dinner,” he said, tucking Harry’s shirt into the back of his trousers properly. With a chaste kiss, he wrapped Harry up fully and Disapparated.

When they arrived, Draco steadied Harry, who was still holding on as he usually did. Draco took a careful step back, and Harry’s arms dropped to his sides. A slow smile spread on his face as he looked around, then his eyes found Draco’s.

Draco answered Harry’s smile and said, “Happy birthday, Potter.”

Voices gathered and filled the room as people Harry knew, some he hadn’t seen in years, shouted ‘Happy birthday’ and swallowed Draco as though he was nothing more than a rock on a beach at high tide.

Luna, the Weasleys, people from the DA, and former colleagues approached. Behind them, Harry could make out the looming figures of Hagrid and Madam Hagrid – formerly Madam Maxime – and Professor McGonagall standing with Madam Pomfrey. 

Luna was the first to reach out and hug Harry tightly, and then fondle his arse indecently. “Luna!” Harry protested, a bright flush spreading over his cheeks. She blinked innocently as he pushed her away, but George, mischievous bastard that he was, followed her example, closely trailed by Dean and Seamus. 

Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it at his friends. “Next person who grabs my arse is going to have tentacles for testicles.”

Either completely stupid or remarkably brave, Lavender Brown stepped forward made for Harry’s arse. He fired off a spell and heard Dean say teasingly, “But your arse is so grabbable, Harry!” 

Harry wished he had worn the robes. The crowd dispersed, and people patted him on the back with smiles and laughter to accompany them. Seeing everyone was nice; Harry had lost contact with many over the last few years, or had only seen them when he ventured out of Hightrees for something apart from work.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” a familiar voice said. Harry turned with a smile and saw Cho; she looked stunning. Harry hadn’t seen her since he’d invested in the broom company she’d started. She leaned forward and gave Harry a chaste kiss on the cheek, adding, “You look well.”

“Cho. So do you. How’s the broom business?”

“Thriving, thanks. The new model’s performing brilliantly. How’s the Auror business?” 

“Not an Auror any more.”

She was surprised. “Really?” 

“Yeah. I retired a little over a week ago. Going to train at St Mungo’s. Mediwizard.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Wow. That’s... a change of direction.” She flashed a cheeky smile, one Harry found attractive, but not particularly appealing as he once had. “I don’t suppose I could tempt you into the broom industry instead? We need a flier like you to test the new models.”

“My leg won’t take a lot of flying,” Harry told her, wondering what ‘a flier like you’ really meant; Harry knew he hadn’t always been wise on a broom. Reckless, more like. If Draco hadn’t been so clearly distressed when Harry was flying, he might have actually taken the offer to help, but he also knew that Draco would never get anything done. It just reminded him that he’d need to bring it up, and soon, or else Harry would never be able to fly without Draco shutting down completely. And he wanted their children to learn to fly, to race, as Draco had.

Cho interrupted Harry’s thoughts. “Oh, really? I’m sorry; you always loved flying.” Her expression was genuinely sympathetic. 

Harry smiled. “Yeah. I’ve been flying with Krum, but I can’t go more than twenty minutes or so before I have to stop and rest.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. Still, if you ever want to come into the factory for a spin, it’d be lovely to see you.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that,” Harry said and changed the subject, not wanting to dwell on his debility, not when he’d accepted that it would be a part of who he was. “Are you here with anyone?”

“I’m here with myself, since my boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – is in Rome with my soon-to-be ex-secretary.” She laughed at Harry’s startled and compassionate expression. “Oh, they’re not enjoying it. Well, not for long. There’s this really brilliant hex that Draco taught me...”

Harry couldn’t help laughing. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Never thought that vindictive streak of his would come in so handy, but I’m not complaining. It’s good to know he’s behind me. I was scared shitless of breaking up with him, but he took it really well, actually. Disappointingly well.” She rolled her eyes.

Harry hummed absently and scanned the room, looking for Draco. Then what Cho had said sank in. “Wait – What? You were with him, too?”

She seemed surprised. “Yeah, years ago. You didn’t know? Well, obviously you didn’t.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t,” Harry said, shocked. It didn’t matter to him that Draco had been with Cho; the news had just taken him by surprise. What Harry had seen earlier, Draco’s experiences with sex and women – and men – brought back some of his previous insecurity with sex and his ability to please Draco. He had no idea how he was supposed to keep up, if that was what Draco wanted; and with Draco’s former liaisons with women, particularly attractive ones that Harry knew, with no indication that they hadn’t been satisfactory, his feeling of unease and slight insecurity grew. Part of him envied that Draco had been able to experience those things, too. Not some of what he’d seen in Luna’s memories, but at least having more than one lover before deciding that he had everything he’d wanted. He wondered how things would have turned out if he had taken a fancy to a man while he and Ginny had still been together. There was nothing that he wanted to be different, but the ‘what-ifs’ clung to the back of his mind like moss on a tree. What if he’d been less of an arse in school to Draco; what if he’d not settled down with Ginny so early; what if he hadn’t become an Auror…? Of course, Harry was also aware of the surge of possessiveness that ripped through him: Draco was his. “I’m... going to say hello to George and Angelina. Have fun, yeah?”

Cho smiled as Harry walked away, heading toward anyone. When he caught sight of Draco, he noticed the alarmed and perplexed expression on his face and tried to show that he was alright. The day had been full of surprises so far, and he wondered whether if anything else would crop up before the evening was over with. 

As Harry walked, he noticed more and more people. Oliver Wood stood talking to Draco, Ron, and Krum. Harry hadn’t seen Oliver for a while; his looks hadn’t improved much, Harry thought. Romilda Vane stopped Harry as he made his way through the crowd of people. She bounced and gave Harry a kiss that he wished he could forget. He still hadn’t forgotten her ridiculous attempt at giving him Amortentia in the sixth year. 

Trying politely to push her away was futile; she clung to his arm valiantly, exclaiming, “Harry, you look fantastic!” her words slurring from too much champagne. 

“Romilda, let go of me,” Harry said as kindly as possible. Her hand dropped down to a loose grip around his wrist. He hated that everyone seemed to want to touch him as though they knew him well enough, or he welcomed it. 

“How are you doing now? This place is fabulous, isn’t it? It must be amazing to live here. Isn’t Mrs Malfoy beautiful? I never noticed that before.”

Harry wrenched his wrist free and smiled tightly. “I’m fine.” Harry wondered who else Draco had invited to the party. After exchanging a few inane pleasantries with Romilda, Harry got away, and felt another touch on his arse. By the time he had turned, though, no one was close enough to have been responsible. He hoped Draco didn’t think he was encouraging all of this unsolicited affection; Harry knew Draco well enough to know that he didn’t like it any more than Harry did, but he stood impassive and immaculate, playing the perfect host for Harry. It had to be killing him to be around so many of Harry’s friends and acquaintances. Even though Harry had been cleared as his patient, they hadn’t made any formal announcements about their relationship, and Harry thought that if they had, he wouldn’t be dealing with so many sets of wandering hands that had never paid him any mind before. Harry thought that if they saw him and Draco as a couple that they’d stop, or at least be less stupid about it.

When Harry was alone, Draco made his way over to him and stopped oddly close.

“It appears to be de rigueur to do this, and it would ill behove me to be remiss.” Harry had no idea what that meant, but it became clear when he felt Draco squeeze his tender buttocks lightly. Someone guffawed loudly. A flush spread on Harry’s cheeks.

“What are you doing?” Harry demanded, wondering what had got into Draco. This deviation from usual behaviour confused Harry; he had no idea how he was supposed to act.

Draco laughed. “Keeping up with the times, apparently,” he said, and turned, placing a hand on Harry’s back, and began steering him toward a smaller group, one in which Neville and his fiancée stood. 

“Bones, Abbott. Here’s your birthday boy,” Draco said as they stopped. Draco nodded toward Neville. “Longbottom.”

Both girls kissed Harry; thankfully neither of them tried to grab his arse.

“I think Romilda’s getting worse,” Susan said.

Harry rolled his eyes, wanting to forget the girl had tried to push her tongue down his throat. “It’s the wine.”

“I don’t know. You look pretty good.” There was a sly twinkle in Susan’s eye as she spoke, her gaze centred on Harry. Harry flushed again.

“Don’t get ideas, Bones. Potter is strictly off-limits.” 

Harry could have kissed Draco for that; even though he hadn’t said _why_ he was off limits, he’d at least made the effort to let Harry know that much was safe to say.

“Congratulations on the engagement,” Harry said, looking at Hannah and Neville.

They wore matching expressions of happiness. Neville, though, was the one to ask, “Will you come to the wedding?”

Harry smiled. “Should, yeah. Have you set a date?”

“Spring,” Hannah replied, still smiling.

Relieved their wedding was nowhere near Christmas or summer, Harry smiled in return. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Politely, Draco excused himself. Following Draco’s movement, Harry barely heard that the reception would be held at the Leaky Cauldron. For some reason, Draco was facing a dark corner of the room, but Harry wasn’t able to see what he was doing; Susan placed her hand on his arm, and drew his attention away.

“Would Hermione forgive me if I collared you for your first dance of the night? I’m very careful with sticks.” 

“Hermione?” Harry blinked in surprise.

“Well, she’s the obvious one, isn’t she? Or has Cho…?” 

“I’m not… Hermione. No,” Harry stammered, turning back to where Draco was emerging from the corner with a tentatively glowing Lucy on his arm and leading her to the dance floor.

Susan smiled. “Then let’s dance. I promise not to grope you.”

Hannah giggled as Harry tried to dissuade her from dragging him to the floor.

“I, uh... I’m not a terribly good dancer.”

Susan laughed. “I was at the Yule Ball too, Harry. Come on.” 

There was no argument that would suffice to get Harry out of dancing with Susan, so he took her hand and led her to the floor. Others joined in: Keith danced with Narcissa; Ianthe with Roland; and somehow Henry had got hold of Cho, looking as though he’d just discovered the joys of wanking. A smile, despite his envy at Lucy, eventually crept over Harry’s face as he watched her dance with Draco. She was very, very good, much better than Harry, and at least not embarrassing her partner as Harry thought he must be doing to Susan with his clumsy and out-of-practice steps. Lucy was the shy, middle daughter of Mrs Prout, but she had taken to Draco, and opened up like a flower with his kind attention to her. Harry couldn’t help but smile, delighted by Draco returning it over the top of Lucy’s head. 

Turning his attention back to Susan after he stepped on her foot, Harry felt slightly disconcerted by her speculative look. 

“Harry Potter, are you suddenly gay?” 

Harry’s eyes widened and he flushed brightly. She looked entirely too delighted.

“And you’re shagging Malfoy?” 

What answers were acceptable to give, Harry didn’t know. His flush deepened, and, apparently amused by this, Susan laughed heartily. 

“Cho’s going to _die_!”

“Just... keep it down, will you?” Harry insisted, immediately changing the subject to Hermione and Krum to avoid any more discomfort. Like a curious child that had never seen fire, Susan continued to ask questions: who Draco was dancing with; why the housekeeper was at Harry’s birthday party; why Draco was treating Lucy like a porcelain princess. He felt like he was giving an interview for the _Prophet_ and nearly asked if she was working for them, but he thought better of it and was grateful, if a bit embarrassed, when someone he barely recognised cut in, rescuing her from any more of Harry’s poor footwork. 

As Harry was leaving the floor, Luna grabbed his arm and dragged him back with a dreamy smile on her face as she draped an arm around his neck.

“I’ll tread on your feet, too,” he warned her. But she didn’t seem to care. “You’re brave today.”

“You’re very lovely.” Harry flushed. “Happiness suits you.”

“Uh, thanks, Luna,” he said. “How’s Rolf? Is he here?”

She nodded. “He’s talking to Sarah.” Then, as though her thoughts were nothing more than the blink of an eyes, she added, “Draco says he’s getting me pregnant at the end of September.” Harry nodded his confirmation with a smile. “Would you like me to have twins?”

“When?”

“One of the times.”

“Oh... no. I don’t think so. Draco wants to test something he’s been reading about. One will be mine, though.”

She nodded, then snuggled closer, with her head under his chin. Harry felt awkward, particularly after the night they had had together and the memories he’d viewed. But he knew Luna wasn’t cruel; that was the only thing that allowed him to continue dancing with her. Draco’s reassurances had been enough, and after time to process what he’d seen, Harry remembered that she had been kind. Most of the discomfort stemmed from having seen Luna naked, and remembering some things from that evening, and he felt as if he shouldn’t be so close to her. He couldn’t touch her without faint flashes of her kisses, or without remembering how she had been with Draco in the Pensieve. She hummed softly, almost reminding him of the girl from Hogwarts. 

“Luna, those memories... why did you...? And don’t say it’s obvious.”

She began singing a little song to herself, and unable to feign patience with her cryptic behaviour, Harry heaved a sighed, but continued dancing. His gaze flickered to Draco and Lucy, and at last, stopping mid-cadence, she spoke.

“He’d give more to you.”

“What makes you say that?”

She sighed softly, her breath tickling Harry’s skin. “He loves you.”

“I know.” He smiled. Though how that explained Draco giving Harry more than he’d seen in her memories was beyond him.

“He trusts you completely. He wouldn’t need to ask you to stop.” The memory of Luna choking Draco rushed into Harry’s thoughts, his whole body tensing. “He can make himself go a long way. It took a long time to find the point he couldn’t do it any more. I was starting to worry.”

“Yeah. But I don’t want more.” Clearing his throat, Harry admonished her, “I’m not very happy about you stealing my hair.”

Luna sighed. “I thought that might be his limit, but it wasn’t.” 

“So you chose to turn him into me?” Harry asked in incomprehension.

“That wasn’t it either,” she said mournfully, her movements more like the edge of a robe playing tag with the wind than dancing. “I didn’t think he’d ever say no. Rolf was getting quite upset.” 

“I could see the change,” Harry commented, his heart aching for Draco. So many things he’d done, so many things he’d seen and put himself through since the war. 

“Oh, that wasn’t me. That was his boyfriends. He got better after Rolf and I taught him that he still knew how to say no.” 

“Then, thanks,” Harry found himself saying.

Smiling, Luna added, “He learned the wrong things before. I really was worried.”

“You could at least have warned me.” Harry’s leg gave an uncomfortable twitch as they moved around.

She giggled. “You wouldn’t have watched it if I had.”

Albeit reluctantly, Harry had to agree. “It was… thoughtful.” He paused. “I won’t break him, if you’re worried about that.”

“No, I’m not. He was ready for you.” She smiled. “He’s very beautiful, you know.” 

“Yeah, he is,” Harry concurred. The Draco he had seen in the Pensieve wouldn’t have been capable of the relationship they shared; at least, Harry didn’t think he would have been. The ghosts of memories past and circumstance clung to all of them. But they were moving on and trying to make the best of things. The past was another page, one that had a plethora of lessons, but it couldn’t be changed or altered, no matter how much Harry wished it. He had to remind himself that even if he didn’t agree with what Luna had done, it had obviously helped Draco. That was all that mattered. He didn’t want to imagine what Draco had gone through at his uncle’s hand, or any of his other relatives’ hands that had led him to put himself at Luna’s mercy without saying no. He hoped that Draco would say no to him if the situation called for it. Having Draco giving in to everything wouldn’t do either of them any good. 

Curiosity over what Luna had seen in Draco, and why she had decided it had been her place to help mend the broken parts of him, welled within Harry. Not that he minded: Luna’s efforts had paid off by helping them fit together.

Luna gave a happy little sigh. “He won’t say no to you.”

“I’ll never give him a reason to want to.”

Luna drew back and blinked at Harry, and a breathtaking smile came over her face. Surprised, Harry stopped. She leaned in and kissed him on the lips, then wandered off like night after day. 

Harry flushed as he looked around in embarrassment, unsure what he had just said to send Luna away. Couples continued to dance around Harry as he stood alone in the middle of the floor. Slowly, he began to edge away, catching Draco shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. He wondered, as he strode toward a set of chairs whether that had been because of him or Luna, and stopped when he heard Charlie ask, “What’s this I hear about everyone grabbing your arse? New birthday tradition?” At Harry’s flush, he reached out a large hand and gave Harry’s arse a firm squeeze with a grin. “Nice.”

“Thanks for that,” Harry said, his expression indicating more exasperation than anything. “I think the only ones who haven’t done it are the parents and the kids.”

Charlie laughed. “What’s up with Luna this time?” Harry shrugged. “She’s round the bend, that one. Grown up well, though. I remember a skinny kid with a pointy nose and eyes like a couple of fried eggs.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “Luna’s Luna.”

“Malfoy’s filled out since I last saw him, too.” Charlie levelled a speculative look at Harry, who glared at the comment. “Oh, it _is_ like that, is it?” Harry flushed. “If you weren’t family, mate, you’d have a fight on your hands.” 

“A fight?” Harry asked, waving to catch Flitter’s attention as the house-elf circulated with a tray of champagne.

“Put it this way: if you give him his marching orders, I want warning.” Charlie grinned. “Find out just how good a dragon handler I am.”

“I have no plans of giving him any marching orders.” 

“No? Ah, well. Just bear it in mind.” 

Harry’s eyes narrowed at Charlie watching Draco. “Please tell me he bottoms.”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Harry bristled. 

“Because that would be in really bad taste.”

“Oh, and eyeing him up right here isn’t? Or asking about warning on marching orders.”

Charlie laughed. “Relax, Harry. This is manly bonding-talk. Or it was, anyway.” Then he regarded him more gravely. “You’re serious about him.” 

“If taking Malfoy as a last name is serious, then, yeah.”

Genuine astonishment came over Charlie’s face at that. “Good for you, then, mate. I wish you happy.” He glanced at Draco. “He’s one lucky bastard.” 

Confused, given that Charlie had just been on about Draco, Harry thanked him and changed the subject. “I need to sit down. You’re welcome to join me.”

Charlie shook his head. “We should _not_ be having a serious conversation. This is your birthday. Let’s get drunk.” He looped his arm around Harry’s shoulders and hustled him towards chairs and tables. Hermione found her way to them when they sat, and Draco, having finished his dance, rested his hand on Harry’s shoulder before sitting down. The gesture, uncharacteristic in its open affection in a public setting, still brought a smile to Harry’s face. Draco kept his hand on Harry’s shoulder blade.

“You need to have an early night, Granger; you look peaky.”

She laughed, then asked if that was the technical term, as Draco greeted Charlie. Fortunately, Charlie behaved quite well, considering what he’d said to Harry. Draco eventually turned to him and asked, “How’s your leg?”

The familiar question brought a faint smile to Harry’s face. “Tired. I’ll be alright. Just need to rest a bit.” 

Draco nodded. “I saw you dancing with Bones. Do I need to fix any fractured metatarsals?” 

Harry laughed. “Probably. I warned her.”

“I’m sure you did,” Draco said, shaking his head affectionately. “Granger, Chang wants me to sort out Edgecombe’s face.”

“Her face? Why?” Hermione asked.

“You cursed her with boils. They read ‘SNEAK’,” Draco patiently pointed out the obvious. 

“It was supposed to go away when she learned her lesson.”

Draco smiled. “Well, she has, and it hasn’t.” 

Hermione folded her arms over her large belly. “If you must.”

Still amused, Draco said, “If you prefer the poor creature to remain disfigured for life...” 

Hermione huffed. “Of course not.”

Feeling the warmth of Draco’s touch, Harry leaned back into it, an answering press sending a shiver down his spine.

“I shall infer your permission to restore her beauty, then. I’ll attend to it now; she’ll lose her nerve and leave, otherwise.” Draco stood, his fingers brushing against Harry’s neck as he left them at the table.

Emotional, and seeming to have forgotten why Draco had left, Hermione said, “Oh, Harry!” with tears welling in her eyes.

Harry had no idea what had got into Hermione, and she gladly pointed out how romantic Draco’s gestures were. He wasn’t as concerned with that as the expression of surprise and guarded pleasure on Narcissa’s face as she watched Draco; he wondered what it meant and why she was pleased with Draco’s more open behaviour. Hermione’s continued spontaneous, rambling panegyric brought a flush to his cheeks. Sitting had done Harry good, though; the tension in his leg had already dissipated. 

“She says thank you, Granger,” Draco said upon his return. He eyed Harry. “How drunk are you?”

“Not. I only had one glass,” he said with amusement, curious why Draco was asking.

Draco smiled. “How’s your leg?” 

“Better.” Harry smiled in return.

“Any discomfort at all?” Draco asked, giving Harry a searching look. Harry shook his head. “Then would you like to dance?” 

Rising, Harry followed Draco to the dance floor, beaming brilliantly. Draco laughed affectionately, and said, “You look like a smitten teenager, Potter.” 

Harry laughed. “I am. Not a teenager…”

Draco’s hand stroked the length of Harry’s spine. “You can announce our engagement, if you like.” 

“Y-you’re sure?”

Unexpectedly, Draco leaned forward and kissed Harry’s forehead. “I’d rather not have anyone else making eyes at you.”

“ _Me?_ Charlie told me to tell him if I ever give you marching orders.” Harry rolled his eyes. “See how much a dragon tamer he really is.”

“I can’t even say that’s the first time I’ve heard _that_ joke about my name,” Draco said, rolling his eyes.

Harry laughed, and sobered slightly. “Thanks. For this.” Draco adopted a quizzical air. “Don’t give me that look. You know exactly what I’m thanking you for.”

Draco’s expression stalled for a moment, then shifted to a look of resignation. “You don’t need to thank me for things like this. It’s no more than you deserve. You should have had this all your life.”

“And then I would probably have been like my father. Or worse,” Harry pointed out. “I can appreciate it now.”

The expression on Draco’s face was unhappy.

“What?” Harry asked.

Draco reached up and touched Harry’s face briefly. “You should have been treasured all your life.” 

Saying that Harry thought the same thing about Draco would only cause problems, so he clamped down on the urge, hoping that he made it clear by the way he treated his fiancé. A change of subject was needed, Harry knew. If Draco was left too long in an emotional situation, he’d shut down, and Harry didn’t want that. “You’re not going to stand with me if I tell everyone, are you?”

Draco looked at him as if he was an idiot. “Of course I am.” He considered for a moment. “Cretin. I’ll even hold your hand, since you so kindly offered it to me.”

“You don’t have to. I’m surprised you kissed me.” But Harry had liked it. Any affection, however brief, was welcome. 

“I’ll kiss you again, when you tell them.”

Smiling, Harry continued dancing, ignoring the rest of the room. At the end of the song, Draco led him to a table with Bill, where Fleur rose and hugged both of them, then went off to dance with Draco, speaking rapidly in French. Harry sat down and took a glass of champagne from the house-elf who quickly approached him.

“I love listening to that,” Bill said, leaning in.

 

“I’ve only heard it a few times. I could get used to it.” 

“Can’t do it well enough to enjoy it, myself, but just get an earful.” Bill sighed happily, then raised his eyebrows knowingly at Harry. “So when they’re done, you grab yours, I’ll grab mine, and see you back here in half an hour or so?” He laughed as colour spread on Harry’s cheeks; Harry didn’t know if he had the stamina to fuck again that day.

“Last time I heard it, he was yelling at that bloke he used to be with.” 

“Last time I heard Fleur, she was pissed off about me tracking mud over the floor. Sort of loses something, that does.” He sounded wry and amused.

Harry laughed, and Draco and Fleur looked at both of them quizzically. Fleur said something to Draco, that made him laugh – a real laugh, not one of those he usually used in acknowledging the sallies of mere acquaintances. A slight flare of jealousy moved through Harry, but he flattened it with the foot of reason. 

“Aye, aye. She’s rumbled us,” Bill commented as they moved out of earshot again.

“So who else knows?” Harry asked, taking a sip of his wine. He watched Fleur and Draco, his brow furrowing at seeing her fingers hovering a centimetre above Draco’s wrist. 

“What, about the French fetish? Just them, I reckon,” Bill said, jerking Harry out of his thoughts.

“No... about Draco and me.” 

“Oh, well... Me, obviously. Pretty clear, what with the talk we had in the car, and all that. And I can smell him all over you. Ron, I reckon, since he won’t talk about your lad at all and he’s been living here. The rest of ’em sort of know but don’t know and won’t ask.” Fleur fell into a ripple of musical laughter, and Bill smiled. “I reckon you’ll be seeing more of us.” Bill looked pleased; Harry didn’t mind. Draco needed someone else around who could share his intellect in a way Harry couldn’t: he didn’t have many friends that Harry had seen. 

“He trusts you,” Harry said, the only response he could come up with. “He told me that.”

Eyebrows raised, apparently impressed, Bill asked, “Did he, now? That’s... something.” 

Nodding, Harry smiled. “You’ve done the impossible.” Bill gave him a quizzical look. “He’s not close to anyone, Bill.”

Bill shook his head. “He’s close to enough. You. That Prout woman. Seems to be getting on well enough with the Minister.” He smiled when Fleur laughed again. “Seems to be getting on well enough with Fleur, too.” 

“Yeah. Took me a while to get there, though. Eleanor is family. And Kingsley... well, he and Narcissa are sort of engaged.” 

Taken aback, Bill’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? Merlin help us! That woman’s got a mind like a knife. With her behind him, Shacklebolt’ll be unstoppable.” He paused. “Which is probably a good thing, I reckon.” 

“I think Draco wants them to stay here.” Harry laughed.

Bill snorted. “Then they will. He’s not thinking of going for politics himself, is he?” 

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t be surprised if he disappeared before long, actually. He doesn’t do this sort of thing without... He just can’t handle so many people.” Needing to drag things back on topic, he said, “He’s going back to St Mungo’s for a bit.”

“Yeah?” Bill asked in surprise. “Thought he’d be glad to see the back of that place.” 

At the end of the song, Mrs Prout joined Draco and Fleur. Harry watched colour rise on her cheeks as Draco turned and smiled at her. Then she began to speak in French, but her accent was noticeably different to Harry. “Me, too. He was asked back when I was cleared. But I’m going to be training, so... I really don’t know why he decided to go back, actually.” To himself, Harry said, “I didn’t know Eleanor spoke French, too.”

 

“From what Mum said, she’s pretty old-school; she probably speaks Italian, plays the piano, and paints watercolours, too. She and Mrs Malfoy probably get on like old friends.” It surprised Harry that Bill had heard what he’d said; he imagined it was to do with the strange mix of wizard and werewolf that he was now. The comment about Eleanor made Harry wonder how pure-bloods knew so much about one another, even though they didn’t move in the same social circles. Ron had never demonstrated that sort of knowledge.

“Yeah, she gave me two paintings she did for my birthday. She’s been brilliant. If Draco keeps increasing her salary, though, she might demand he stop paying her.” Harry laughed, watching Bill’s eyes widen a fraction. 

“She going to be sticking around? She’d be good for his kids.”

“We’re getting married on New Year’s Eve. And Luna’s going to be a surrogate.” Harry flushed. “Already have a name and everything for our first son,” Harry said, trying to rectify the notion that the children would only be Draco’s, just because they were marrying. Even if they hadn’t made plans for the second child to be Harry’s biologically, Harry would have still considered the children his. “But keep it quiet, yeah? We don’t want his mum to know.”

Nodding, Bill remarked, “That’s... sooner than I might have expected. You do right.” 

Harry shrugged. “I asked. He agreed. He set the date.” Bill was visibly impressed. “As long as we danced around each other, I reckon it’s like Luna said: inevitable.” 

“How’d his mother take it?” 

“Narcissa helped.” Harry laughed, finishing his champagne. “I made sure she approved first. I was worried she wouldn’t actually.”

Bill whistled softly. “Congratulations, mate. You’ve done what most people reckon is impossible.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Shaking his head, Bill explained, “Harry, the Malfoys are pure-bloods. They’re basically the pure-blood’s pure-blood. The family’s been here for over a thousand years under the same name. It took something like nine months of negotiation to get an alliance tentatively worked out with the Blacks, and you know what _they_ were like. And then the engagement was over a year. And you... pop the question when? Sometime in the last few weeks? And you’re getting married before the end of the year? That’s... big. Really, really big. Not even the Boy Who Lived stuff should be big enough to do _that_ for you.” 

“Don’t call me that. Please,” Harry said with an exasperated sigh. 

“I wasn’t. I was just saying it’ll open a lot of doors, but not _that_ one.” 

“Yeah, and I’m thankful for that, really.” 

For a moment, Bill was silent, a contemplative look on his face. “Must have been your lad. I can’t see his mum just chucking it all out of the window.” Regarding Draco for a long moment with interest, Bill continued, “I mean, families like that one marry for three reasons. Power, money, and blood purity. No offence, but you don’t really top the lists in any of them.” 

“I know.” 

“I had my money on this Finnish family. They’ve got a daughter the right sort of age. Pretty, blonde... not too mouthy. Went to Beauxbatons with Fleur. Same sort of political background. Her granddad was caught up in the Grindelwald stuff.” Harry was surprised that there had been a short-list of potential wives: all he had heard from Draco on the subject was the emphatic statement that he didn’t want one. Bill distracted him with a wolfish grin, though. “Reckoned without Harry Potter, though, didn’t I? Still, nobody had their money on _you_.” 

Laughing, Harry said, “It just... happened.” 

Bill laughed back, saying, “Doesn’t it always?” He looked meditative for a moment. “Still, it’ll be good for him. He won’t have to worry about heading the family up.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked in incomprehension.

Bill regarded him. “Being the paterfamilias. He’s not a pack leader, that one.” Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “He’s not. Oh, I know how he was in school with the rest of Slytherin, but... nah. He’s bred for it and raised for it, but... nah. Just doesn’t fit him.” Bill nudged Harry with his elbow. “Like you and rules.” Harry flushed at Bill’s grin. “If he were a wolf, he’d be bloody dangerous. Sort you have to handle carefully. He doesn’t want to be the pack leader, but he’ll rip your throat out before he’ll hand it over to you if he doesn’t reckon you’re up to it.” 

“You do, that. Have to handle him carefully, I mean.” Anything dealing with Draco’s father, extreme emotions, or the war were all off limits, and it wasn’t uncommon for people to bring up all three topics in the same conversation. Not even Harry could talk about Lucius or the war without Draco shutting down.

“’Course you do. Well, maybe not you. The rest of us, definitely.” It was said with amusement and a hint of respect.

“Oh, I do, too. Don’t let the fact we’re together fool you. Talking to him can be like talking to a mountain sometimes.” 

Bill’s eyebrows rose. “’Talking’? Right. You... uh, you have worked out that sometimes ‘talking’ needs to be a figure of speech, right?” 

Laughing, Harry replied, “Of course. I just mean, before. I mean, trying to get him to admit he fancied me was like a war. And everything after… I know. He says what he needs to say in other ways.” 

Bill scratched his neck. “No, I mean more... like sometimes you can either argue for days – weeks, probably, with him - or you can say ‘this is what you’re doing’ and then just...” He made a vague gesture. Embarrassed and evidently slightly at a loss, Bill regarded him closely. “Look, you know what I just said about him not being a pack leader?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, trying to understand the point.

“That sort of means somebody else is. And in this picture, that basically leaves you. Wolves like him - blokes like him, I suppose - they... sometimes they just need telling ‘this is what we’re doing’. And you’re his pack leader. I don’t mean... you can push him around on everything, mate. Just... sometimes, you’ll say it and he’ll just roll over Or sometimes, maybe, you’ll say it and then you’ll have to push him before he rolls. And you need to do it sometimes, because that tells him the world’s the shape it’s supposed to be. Look, I’m not all that good at this stuff. Comparative psychology, or whatever Hermione called it. Fleur’s a better bet for that.” 

“It’s all new to me.” Harry laughed. “I had to ask Eleanor and Narcissa to teach me how I can touch him in public.” 

“Just as well you didn’t ask me. Fleur’s better at that, too. Beauxbatons was big on the whole deportment and etiquette thing. Probably why most of his exes went through the place.” 

“We’re sending our kids there. I don’t want the whole Boy Who Lived thing hanging over them.” 

“He taking your name, then?” 

“They’ll all be Malfoys. And me,” Harry clarified, realising that the way he’d explained it sounded like Draco was taking his name.

“Yeah?” Bill considered for a moment. “Well, given how you feel about that stuff, that’s probably for the best. Might be good for them not to be Malfoys at Hogwarts, though. Fleur loved Beauxbatons. If you send Malfoy kids to Beauxbatons, you can probably expect much the same. You’ll be getting invitations to go on holiday with other kids’ parents, and send your kids off to other people’s places over the holidays, and stuff. They’ll be far more interested in him than they are in you. The war stuff... didn’t really make much of an impact over there. But the line’s still well known.” Bill smiled slightly.   
“Fleur’s aunt and uncle were looking at your lad for her cousin, once.” 

“Yeah, well... should be a surprise when they realise the Malfoy kids have two dads, yeah?” Harry laughed nervously. “I don’t know. Draco will be polite, but I can’t see him enjoying all that. Not really. But he’s different in public than he is in private. I’d probably embarrass him.” 

Bill’s expression was sceptical. “I doubt it.” He looked up, nodding, and Harry turned to see Draco standing at their table.

“Weasley.” 

Once Fleur was free, Bill excused himself and grabbed his wife, towing her out the doors.

“She said he’d do that,” Draco commented.

“Mmm. He was convinced I should do the same. It was all that French.” Harry reached out and ran his fingers over Draco’s wrist. “Could have offered them one of the rooms. Should I send Kreacher to escort them to an empty suite?” 

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Draco said and regarded Harry with a hopeful expression. “We could pay a brief visit to our own.” 

Having no idea if he’d be able to participate much, but nonetheless very willing to try, Harry called Kreacher and sent him to find Bill and Fleur, then discreetly left with Draco.

**~*~*~*~**

Three sharp raps rang out, effectively silencing the hum of conversations throughout dinner. Harry watched Draco as he stood and proposed a gracious and well-received toast for Harry’s birthday, then turned an expectant gaze to Harry. The excited beating of Harry’s heart began to knock against his chest like a triumphant fist. Red crept from his cheeks to his neck and ears as he stood.

Harry’s fingers twitched as he felt Draco’s hand slide into his, an anchor keeping him from drifting in the current of so many confused faces.

“Uh…” Harry began, then cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming tonight, everyone. It’s good to see you. Thank you, Draco, for arranging it.” He flushed, pushing a smile around the tension in his lips. “I have an announcement to make.” Turning to look at Draco, lightly squeezing his hand, Harry saw the glinting smile lurking in his eyes. Harry looked at his assembled guests again. “I, uh, asked Draco, that is—” Harry took a breath. “Draco’s agreed to marry me.”

Harry felt incredibly odd with Draco’s amusement and the stunned silence that followed his declaration. His flush deepened as Draco kissed his head affectionately and began to speak.

“What Harry is trying to say is that he has done me the honour of offering me his hand in marriage, and I had sufficient sense to accept.” He cast a richly entertained look around the room at the guests’ continued silence. “It is customary to offer felicitations at this point.”

Arthur stood with his champagne raised. “Harry and Draco. All the best, lads!”

The rest of the gathered joined the toast, applause broke out, and at Draco’s nod, the music began again. With the meal clearly at its end, people began to move off from the table and commenced dancing again. Professor McGonagall approached Harry and embraced him unexpectedly, the large presence of Hagrid overshadowing them. McGonagall patted Harry’s cheek with a smile and moved aside, allowing Hagrid to move into her place and wrap his tree-trunk arms around Harry and hug him, nearly suffocating Harry in his large beard. His wife pulled her husband away as he blew his nose loudly into a large handkerchief. 

People gathered around them after Hagrid had been dragged to the floor by his wife, asking more questions than Harry cared to answer. Draco disappeared in the throng of curious witches and wizards. When Harry hadn’t seen him for half an hour, he pushed he way to Bill and asked, “Have you seen Draco?” 

“No, sorry, Harry.”

Pausing, Harry realised he needed to find Draco and make sure he was alright. “I need to check something; can you keep everyone distracted so I can get away?”

Bill smiled. “I’ll get Fleur to light up a bit, shall I?”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry said and waited for everyone’s attention to shift to Fleur instead of him. When it was clear that Bill’s stunning wife was the centre of attention, he left the ballroom and Disapparated to their rooms.

Surprised to see Draco sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, Harry approached him and wrapped his arms around Draco, feeling the slight quiver run through him. A muttered apology came.

Harry kissed Draco’s forehead. “S’okay.” Then kissed Draco’s neck. “It was brilliant. You were brilliant.”

Draco pulled himself together a bit. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” Harry said and leaned forward, kissing Draco’s cheek.

Stroking Harry’s face lightly, Draco said, “We ought to go back.”

“It’s half ten. I don’t want to leave this room again until eleven. And maybe not after that.” Harry grinned, reminding Draco of the promise he had made earlier in the day to eat him out for half an hour. A smile moved over Draco’s face as he closed his eyes. Harry kissed his eyelids. “I think we broke Matilda’s heart, you know. She told Luna she planned to marry you.”

Draco’s laugh was tired. “She’ll get over it.” He paused. “I thought they generally took it quite well.”

“I don’t care what they think,” Harry said, nuzzling Draco’s ear. “Reporters will be back before midnight. Keith will have something to do, at least.”

Draco hummed. “Creevey’s camera will turn into a newt as soon as he steps out of the house.”

“I told Flitter to take it. I wanted to see the photos.”

Laughing, Draco said, “You don’t need his pictures for that.”

Harry shrugged. “Wanted to see how ridiculous I looked staring at you - like a smitten teenager.”

“You didn’t look ridiculous.”

Harry laughed. “We’ll see. Are you ready to get off the floor?” Draco considered for a moment, and Harry added, “Just to go to the sofa or bed.”

Nodding, Draco said, “Alright.”

He assembled his limbs, and Harry helped him up, letting himself be dragged to the nearest sofa and pulled down on top of Draco. For comfort, he toed off his shoes, squirming between Draco’s legs. He rested his head against Draco’s chest, running his fingers through Draco’s hair absently as Draco stroked his back.

“So, how impolite would it be for me not to go back?”

Draco laughed. “Appallingly. I may kidnap you.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed; he appreciated Draco’s efforts, but he would have been content staying in their bed all day, or sitting on the sofa naked, taking advantage of the exposed skin and easily aroused desire to fuck and be fucked.

Twisting his head to try to look at Harry, Draco said, “I’m perfectly serious. I could have you out of the country in less than five minutes.”

Harry propped himself up and looked at Draco, grinning.

“How do you feel about boats?” Draco asked, a sparkling look starting in his eyes.

“Boats are alright,” Harry replied. “I trust you. You know that.”

Draco stroked Harry’s hair. “Oh, good.” His hands shifted, then Harry felt the smooth liquid-through-a-straw flow of Draco’s Apparition. 

In the Floo room, Draco took a pinch of Floo powder that sparked more than usual and tossed it into the hearth. 

“Villa Malfoy,” he said clearly, then shoved Harry into the intensely green fire.

Everything flew around Harry as he felt like one of George’s fireworks taking flight. When he finally felt his feet on solid ground again, he stumbled, nearly falling to the unforgiving marble floor. Someone squeaked, and Harry looked up to see a startled house-elf, who made sounds like a Muggle chair needing oil as it spoke in weirdly accented French.

The fire whooshed, and Draco stepped out, dusting ash from his hands. He took hold of Harry immediately and addressed the house-elf, which disappeared, making more noise than any creature should.

Draco kissed Harry’s neck. “Welcome to Monte Carlo.”

Delighted, Harry laughed. “You weren’t kidding.” 

Seemingly surprised, Draco said, “Of course I wasn’t.” His hand slid down Harry’s arm, stopping when their fingers were firmly grasping one another. “Come on.”

Harry squeezed reflexively and followed along through the marble halls and gilded doors until they reached a large, sweeping balcony that overlooked the town and harbour. Impressed, Harry remained silent as they stopped, taking in the sight. It was beautiful.

Draco pulled Harry closer, and Disapparated; they landed on a large yacht. 

“Welcome aboard the Day Dream.” 

Harry smiled.

“May I postpone the tour until morning? I would really, really like to go to bed now.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, letting Draco lead him to the bedroom.

The smell of the ocean swept over him like Draco’s hands as they pulled Harry’s clothes from his body, the fabric rumpling on the floor in a messy heap. The hushing lull of the water blanketed him like Draco’s body as they collapsed onto the bed.

**~*~*~*~**

Harry blinked rapidly, the sound of feet hitting the floor like Hippogriff hooves jerking him awake. He sat up and looked around. It was still dark.

“ _Malfoy Manor_ ,” came Draco’s voice. It was distant and fuzzy like the edges of a dream to Harry’s ears. “ _What the hell is going on?_ ”

A distorted response came. Draco swore viciously.

“ _Alright. Get Eleanor Prout and my mother out of bed; I’ll be there as quickly as I can. Tell my mother that she needs to use Araminta’s Nostrum, and have Mrs Prout strip the bed down. She knows what to do. If Ianthe’s willing to assist, she can start walking Granger._ ”

Harry dragged his trousers on as Draco entered the bedroom. “Hermione’s having the baby?” he asked muzzily. A blur of white moved before him as Draco donned his shirt.

“As we speak. Just fasten your trousers; we have to go _now_.”

Grabbing his wand from the bedside table, Harry wrapped his arms around Draco. He felt like he was water in a glass tipped into someone’s mouth as Draco Apparated them back to Villa Malfoy, then spat out again as he rushed through the Floo. Draco wasn’t far behind; he caught Harry and they Apparated again, landing in Hermione’s room.

Spells rang out; wands drew patterns. Narcissa called one of the house-elves to fetch a robe for Draco. The only thing protecting his modesty was the length of his shirt-tails. When the elf returned with a robe for Draco, Harry requested a t-shirt. He cast a glance around the room: Mrs Prout was stripping Hermione’s bed in her nightgown; Narcissa stood by, casting spells, some familiar, and some not, in a short chemise that left nothing to Harry’s imagination – his eyes were irresistibly drawn to her usually covered thighs, a dark flush on his cheeks; Keith, wearing a nightshirt, didn’t look like he knew what to do with himself; and Ianthe, with a surprisingly voluptuous figure admirably showcased by a delicate, gauzy confection of a nightdress, was helping Hermione, who was wearing one of Harry’s old t-shirts, to stagger up and down the length of the room. It was one of the oddest scenes Harry had ever seen. Surreal and full of colour, noise, and expectation.

Harry moved against the wall and sent a house-elf to inform Ron that his son was about to be born; there was nothing else he thought he could do.

“Potter, hold her hand!” Draco commanded. His brow furrowed in concentration as he cast spells, his wand pointed at Hermione, too.

Surprised, Harry quickly took Hermione’s hand and felt like every bone had just snapped underneath her unforgiving grip. 

“Talk to her, Harry,” Narcissa said urgently in Harry’s ear.

Harry had no idea what to say, but he tried to be reassuring. “You’ll be fine. Draco knows what he’s doing.” He patted Hermione awkwardly on the head.

“Draco, I’ve… been listening to your swearing!” Hermione ground out, her fingernails biting into Harry’s skin. They began to move, Ianthe leading them to the bed. Once Hermione was settled, Harry stepped aside to avoid being in the way. Flitter arrived again, informing them that Ron was there.

“The father has no place in the delivery room. Dawlish, keep him occupied.” Keith left the room, relief visible in his expression; Harry was envious of his escape. Harry had no desire to watch as his best friend gave birth. Draco’s voice sounded again. “Potter, where the hell do you think you’re going?” 

Having no idea how he could help, Harry felt someone shove him in Hermione’s general direction as pillows were situated on the bed and Hermione was moved to the edge. Hermione’s nails bit into Harry’s forearm, then shifted, her fingers tightening. 

“Granger, why the hell didn’t you send for me when your waters broke?” 

Ianthe held one of Hermione’s legs, and gave Harry a look he didn’t understand. The vice-grip Hermione had on Harry’s arm seemed to get worse. Her hand shifted, clamping down on the tender places it had already been. Harry grimaced, felt someone grab his free hand and hook it under Hermione’s knee, shoving it back towards him. Eyes wide, he turned a look at Draco, who was still casting. Narcissa joined the steady stream of intonations. He tried to be reassuring as Hermione panted. Her hold loosened for a moment, then she bellowed and Harry felt the sting of sweat rolling across broken skin. 

Mrs Prout did something Harry couldn’t see. Ianthe and Narcissa answered Draco’s questions. Draco swore violently and cast a complicated charm. 

“Alright. Granger. Granger, listen to me. Granger! Stop pushing!”

Hermione shouted a string of invective that made Harry’s cheeks flush brightly. 

“Granger, he’s caught.” Hermione’s face pinched as she tried to listen to Draco. “I’m going to have to rotate him. This will feel very strange. Try not to bear down, please.” 

Harry watched as Draco moved one hand between Hermione’s legs and the other pushed against the bottom edge of her stomach. Constant murmuring came from Narcissa. Mrs Prout stopped what she was doing in the corner and moved to assist Draco. 

In the hallway, Harry could hear Ron having hysterics, then a distinct thud sounded from behind the door. Harry suspected Dawlish had Stunned Ron.

Hermione’s hold tightened again. The sound of her grinding her teeth was loud to Harry as he endured the force of her hand around his arm. He looked around, seeing Mrs Prout getting things arranged in the corner, and heard Draco issue another command to Hermione. And like a thunder clap, it was over as quickly as it had all begun.

Draco lifted the baby; Narcissa left the room; Mrs Prout and Ianthe started cleaning Hermione up; and Harry, mortified at Draco’s insistence that he wait until the baby fed, waited impatiently against the wall. He had no desire to watch Hermione breastfeed. When Ron was finally allowed in, he looked at Harry and said, “I’m glad I didn’t have to watch it, if it left you that colour.” The urge to punch Ron shot through Harry at that, but he nobly stifled it.

Harry shook Ron’s hand and congratulated him and watched as Narcissa left first, followed by Keith and Ianthe. Eventually Draco dragged Harry off to a bath and bed. 

In the morning, Draco informed Harry that he hated births.

“Hopefully Luna won’t wait as long,” Harry said sleepily.

“She won’t get the opportunity.”

Harry shifted and kissed Draco with a smile. “Mmm. You were brilliant, though.” Draco snorted. “At least it’s over until Luna,” Harry murmured, with no inclination to move.

“Mmm. Once I get through the first six months of this brat’s life.”

“Not much of a break, then.” Draco kissed Harry’s head. Slightly more awake, Harry asked, “Why was Hermione wearing one of my shirts?”

Draco paused. “Ah. Would you believe it was her security blanket?” 

Laughter at the absurdity of the notion tore through Harry. “That’s… odd.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.” 

Harry sighed contentedly, moving his arm slightly. He hissed as the sheets [dragged] over the many fingernail cuts and bruises that Hermione had given him. 

Frowning, Draco asked, “What?” 

Harry held up his arm, showing off the many small cuts and dark finger impressions along his arm. Scowling, Draco reached for his wand.

“Never knew she was that strong,” Harry remarked, feeling Draco heal his arm.

“I did.” Draco put his wand down and pulled Harry in, kissing him deeply. Harry, perfectly happy with the direction things were taking, pushed Draco against the bed and manoeuvred between his legs. “Mmph. Move.”

Harry sat back. “What?”

“Lie down,” Draco said, stretching. “I made you a promise yesterday, didn’t I?” 

Harry flushed, recalling Draco’s promise. He moved, and lay on his back with his legs spread, arse on display for Draco. Draco took sensation and twisted it unrelentingly. His wicked tongue manipulated every sound Harry could make until he came. Still panting, Draco folded him up in limbs, placing kisses on Harry’s head until he pulled himself together. When Harry was ready, he pushed Draco back to the bed and sucked Draco’s cock into his mouth, getting him wet. Wanting to test his limits, Harry straddled Draco’s hips and sank onto his cock, relishing the burn of penetration as he set the pace.

Faster and faster, Harry tested himself, his leg, his body and how much he could take. He wanted to know what he was capable of after the enjoyment he had found in Draco’s brutal fuck at the cottage.

They panted; Draco’s body was tense and he was close, same as Harry. The tension became too much. Harry’s leg, like it had in the shower, seized. A tremor ran through the tendons like a shockwave. Harry stopped. “Fuck!” His voice felt like his leg. “Finish. Please. Something.”

Harry let himself be moved around, felt the magic as it moved up his leg and released the tension. Draco swallowed his cock, his fingers replacing his own cock in Harry’s arse, until Harry came again. Draco wrapped himself around Harry, his erection pressing against Harry’s arse as they lay together. 

“I’m sorry I stopped. I was alright... and it just hit. Like when I was in the shower.”

Draco made a hushing noise. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.” 

“Mmm. Don’t move,” Harry said, wanting to keep Draco close.

Draco’s arms tightened. “Not until you’re ready.” Harry hadn’t meant sex, but he didn’t comment.

When he was ready, Harry lifted his leg over Draco’s hip and opened himself, feeling Draco take hold of his knee to steady him, for Draco’s pleasure. He rocked on the waves of sensation, until Draco capsized like a storm-ravaged boat and wrapped his arms around Harry’s sweaty body as comfort settled over them like sea foam. Slowly, Harry caught his breath. He closed his eyes, sated, exhausted, and so happy he felt like he might float away if Draco let go. All of the steps leading to that point, no matter how painful some had been, had been worth it. 

Harry groaned, “Need to piss,” as his bladder protested and he shifted carefully away from Draco, with come dribbling between his legs.

After relieving his bladder, he lay half across Draco, felt Draco’s arm curl around him automatically. Time crept by, and Harry lay awake, listening to Draco breathe. He looked up, seeing Draco’s eyes closed, his face relaxed as though he was asleep, and chose to string together his disjointed thoughts and emotions since Draco sleeping meant Draco not being made so uncomfortable that he had to seek the sanctuary of his library. 

“I don’t know if I can ever thank you enough for everything, or ever… show you how much you mean to me… but I hope you can see it every time I smile at you, or every time I touch you. I’m nowhere near as good with words as you are, and I wouldn’t want to be.” Harry laughed lightly.

“I think we’d both get tired of hearing the same eloquent stuff all the time. I mean, from each other.” He paused for a moment. “I love you for everything you’ve done, even when you didn’t have to do it. I love you for every painful moment you made me wait before touching me, because it made me appreciate it more. I love you for every smile, every laugh, the way you say my name, like it’s something you aren’t sure whether you’re entitled to use – but you are. More so than anyone else. You’re my best friend. My first and last thought every day. I didn’t know that something had been missing until I had lost everything. But I gained something far more… precious than I could have ever hoped for. I’m pathetically grateful that you even… accepted me. I haven’t wanted to fight that hard for anything in a long time. And I can’t… I don’t know if I have the words, or the ability to show you. They tend to get all muddy, and I think that you wouldn’t want to hear it anyway.” Harry laughed softly again. “I don’t regret any of the past any more – not when it brought us here. There isn’t anything I’d want over us – this.” He whispered, “I love you, Draco. You’re everything to me.” He kissed Draco’s chest and closed his eyes.

Draco shifted underneath him and rolled Harry over. Surprised, Harry yelped, “I thought you were asleep!” his face flaming red.

“I wasn’t,” Draco said, kissing him. 

Harry let himself be consumed by Draco again.

**~*~*~*~**

For days, Harry spent most of his time practicing the piano, looking through some of Draco’s old textbooks and course notes, being taught to drive by Keith, and flying with Krum and Ron. Draco spent most of his time hiding in his library, which Harry suspected had to do with his emotional declaration after his birthday. Draco was also preparing to return to St Mungo’s with the added responsibility of being a teacher, though, and Hermione informed him at length that this involved a very great deal of preparation and paperwork. Photos of Harry and Draco together and individually had graced the cover of _Witch Weekly_ and the _Daily Prophet_ since Harry’s birthday. Wild stories claiming that Draco had made Harry into a personal slave or Imperiused him – and vice versa – had spattered across the pages. Interviews with former lovers of Draco’s, and even an interview with Ginny had cropped up. Harry ignored it completely, beyond seeking their solicitor’s services to quash any more rumours.

They had gone to Diagon Alley to get Harry’s textbooks and any supplies that he’d need the day before orientation at the hospital. Reporters followed them endlessly, only keeping their distance because of Draco’s icy stare. Questions, even disdainful looks[,] met both of them from witches and wizards of all backgrounds, but there were those who braved Draco’s contemptuous gaze and congratulated them. It was surreal to see so many people that Harry didn’t know acting like they knew both of them. It was just the beginning, though, Harry knew. Men like him and Draco couldn’t do anything without people wanting to learn every detail about their lives, a side effect of their pasts: former Death Eater and the wizarding world’s saviour.

Shopping with Draco, Harry learned, meant spending insane amounts of money: anything Harry looked at that day, he found boxed up in their suite when they returned home. Harry shook his head and marvelled at the load of things that had only been mildly interesting. Someone had taken Luna’s roaring lion hat and expanded it to gloves, scarves, and sundry paraphernalia for Hogwarts Quidditch fans. Harry had pulled Draco from that shop as soon as he’d seen it; a snake scarf with the Slytherin crest had tried to trip him. They had taken another trip to Claridge’s for lunch, a favourite of Harry’s when they went to London.

Exhausted from spending the day out, Harry had a relaxing bath while Draco returned to his seemingly endless paperwork in his study. When he finished, Harry lay in bed, watching a film until Draco finally surfaced from his sanctuary. He was nearly asleep by the time Draco joined him, and wrapped around him securely. Harry could feel the soft tremor of Draco’s chest against his back and waited for Draco to speak or pretend to sleep.

As Harry’s breathing evened out and he started to drift off like a sheet of parchment falling from a desk, Draco spoke.

“I can’t… you know I can’t say it. Talk about it. Not the way you can. I just… you know that.” Draco kissed Harry’s head. “I know. I do see it. And I try to make you know it, too. I am trying to be better. And—” He stopped abruptly, and Harry could feel as Draco braced himself to continue. “I know… I think I know what you mean when you say it. I think I understand it, I mean. And I—” he put his forehead against Harry’s hair, “—and I do, too. I mean what you mean.” Harry squeezed Draco’s hand for a moment and remained quiet, knowing that if he spoke, Draco would retreat. Draco took a breath. “I love you, too, Harry.”

**~*The End*~**


	39. Deleted Scenes

A Letter to Harry, if Draco had Died.

 

Dear Harry, 

I don't know where to begin. If you're reading this, it's because I've been separated from you by the only thing that might conceivably keep me away. I don't know when or how or why; I'm writing into a void. I don't know what to tell you, then, except that whatever happened was not of my choice. Or if it was of my choice, I had an overwhelming reason. There is nothing in this world or any other that could induce me to leave you, except possibly the ransom of my life for yours. I can't imagine anyone considering mine an acceptable substitute, but I of all people know the depths to which insanity can sink. 

I may be haunting you. I almost hope I am. I know I won't be able to rest without you. I hope that I can see you. I hope that I can hear you. I hope that I can know that you're close by. I know that you were the last thought in my mind and that your name was the last sound on my lips; and I know that because you are always in my mind, and your name is always on my lips. I hope the last words I said to you were gentle. If they weren't, I'm sorry. They should have been. 

I hope that I died as I try to live, reminding you that you are all that is good and glorious. I hope that I was able to give you what you want and need.

I hope we're married. I hope we're old, and our children are waiting for you to call them in to give you the comfort you need. I hope you'll let them. 

You know all too well how awkward I am with words and feelings, Harry - yes, and with calling you that. I doubt I will ever be able to explain why you are and always will be Potter to me. 

I can't summon words to tell you the things you need to hear, so I try to show you every day, at every moment. But words are all the tools I have now that I can no longer touch you or taste you. And I hope that word still makes you blush. You will never truly understand how lovely that is to behold, because you're wholly blind to your own beauty. It's as maddening as it is endearing, and it's utterly characteristic of you.

I could write pages of elegy to your many virtues, your charms and graces, but I think it wouldn't please you, and I know it wouldn't do you justice. I know that I have tried - haltingly and gracelessly - to tell you how you shape my existence. I doubt I will ever be able to make you understand. 

I will try. I will try every day as I try now. I would assure you that there is nothing that I would not do for you, or at least attempt. I hope that I have shown you that. I hope that I have shown you that I would keep you and cherish you and honour you for all of the days allowed to me. That is certainly my intention.   
I hope that you can forgive me for the wrongs I have done you. I hope that you can forgive me for whatever I did that resulted in you having to sit - or lie, I think you are lying down; I think you are lying in our bed, with your head on my pillow, and this parchment in your hands - and read this badly formed, un-planned monologue. I would hope that you are angry with me, because I would rather (so much rather!) see you enraged than grieved, but I am a selfish coward, and I cannot bear the notion of you thinking of me in anger. 

I swear to you that wherever I am, I am thinking of you and wishing that I were with you. If there is any way for me to be near you, I promise you that I am. 

You are all that is worthy of redemption in me. I hope I have gone at least some way to deserving you. I miss you. Even sitting here at the desk while you sleep within a dozen paces of me, I miss you. Every moment that I am not touching you, breathing you in, I miss you. I want you. I think maybe I begin to understand it, now.

Harry, you are the core of all creation in my eyes. You always will be. If I can be with you, I will. If I can wait for you, I will. Do not lock yourself away and pine for me. You weren't meant for sorrow. You should live in joy; you have brought it to me - and a year ago I would have believed that impossible - and I hope I have handed some measure of it back to you. You should live in joy, so I hope that you will find it again. I know that you will, if you allow yourself. Let yourself be cared-for and cherished. I will try not to hide you away from those who hold you dear, no matter how badly I want not to share even the most negligent of your glances. 

I could go on. I could go on, and I cannot go on. You're stirring, over there. It isn't a nightmare. I believe you may be dreaming of my fascination with your taste. I hope you are. You're so delightfully affectionate when you've been dreaming of that. Whatever the source of that smile, and those sounds, though, you're stirring. You'll be awake soon, and if you see me with tears in my eyes, you'll be distraught, and that won't do. So I shall lay this aside, and seal it, and send it to Praie for safekeeping in the morning (if I read it, I will certainly burn it); and this afternoon, I think I shall devote myself to showing you again just how very dear to me you are. 

Yours


	40. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Implied character death by choice in this piece.

Looking back over the last one hundred years, Harry watched his children and grandchildren, his hand entwined with Draco’s. The weight of carrying a man’s soul was starting to feel heavy. Harry reckoned it would be nice if when the time came, they could take the train to the next adventure together. It would be grand. They had already out-lived two of the children, and part of Harry just wanted to feel young and lively again. He missed the days when he and Draco could spend hours in bed making love, or when Draco pushed him against a window and made him feel like the world edged toward intangible. Everywhere he looked a memory sat, its impression ghostly but still there. A hundred years. Over that now, Harry had loved the man whose hand still looked young and graceful against his own wrinkled and sturdy ones. Those hands had saved his life more than once, they had given him pleasure, and loved Harry with their ease of movement and knowledge of Harry’s body. Those same hands had held their children, one by one, as they came into the world, and tried to revive the two they’d lost in vain. Leo, born a Squib, completely of their DNA, and Juliana, the little one that had reminded Draco of Harry... She had lived longer than anyone had expected, after being maimed by those horrid Muggles. Harry had cared for her as best he could, with his knowledge of healing magic and never wishing to be anything more than helpful to Draco. He found happiness and contentment in those small things. 

“They’re in good hands.”

Draco merely looked at Harry with his usual serenity.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“Of course, Potter.”

Harry smiled. There was still time to say goodbye to everyone. “I would like to the go to the cottage. I think it’s appropriate.” He pressed his hand to the locket around his neck that had been there since Leda had been an angry student. Yes, they were in good hands. Scorpius, like his father, held the family together nicely, with his half-brothers and sisters. There was a large family of Malfoys to continue the line. It was time. Harry was tired, and this time, he knew he was going for the right reasons.

“I should like to say goodbye first.”

Draco continued to look on as though Harry hadn’t said anything, but so many years together had shown Harry that the flicker of his eyelid was as much like a nod as there would ever be.

\---

It was a long affair, trying to explain that he knew it was time, but eventually goodbyes were said and Harry took hold of Draco and Apparated to the cottage. Their place. Their place when the rest of the world couldn’t be trusted to understand. Ruby and Pearl knew what to do. They would return their bodies for the appropriate services, and then they would bring them back. Their portraits were already ready and large enough for them to be in together – always. The ties that bound them now could not be separated even in death, and Harry felt a calm like none he’d ever known before. He had loved and been loved dearly, still was and still did.

He removed the Horcrux and set about destroying it. For so long he’d kept a piece of Draco close to his heart that he didn’t know what to do once he felt it gone. Even Draco looked weaker for the loss and Harry feared that he’d made the wrong decision. But then there was a moment where Draco looked at him and Harry could tell that whatever pain he felt was going to be gone soon and that once they gave up their magic, they would wither away, but at least they would be together. The magic never really left, Harry knew. It was more like the magic was them and they left behind the shells which could only hold out for so long.

They kissed, a kiss that tangled their magic together so tightly that it would take God to separate them. Harry didn’t care what happened, so long as they were together. And they were. They were bodies, they were energy, they were life and moving from one place to the next, never to be without the other for eternity.

Forever suited Harry just fine.


End file.
